


Be Strong And Stand With Me

by Lynchy8



Series: Take Your Chance [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Blood Play, Codependence, Dark R, Enjolras is angsty, Gen, Hanging, It is now, Knifeplay, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU, Talk of torture, Trigger warnings for chapter nine - please read the tags, dystopian au, experiments on humans, guns and gunshot wounds, is that a thing?, it's what I do best, of course, terrorist attacks, terrorist smut, the unhealthiest kind of unhealthy relationship, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 72,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years since that dreadful day in Paris, the day of the protest which turned into a riot. Two years since the defeat of Les Amis and France remains under the thumb of the governing dictatorship.</p><p>But Marius is returning from exile with important news.</p><p>Enjolras is alive.</p><p> </p><p>(btw just to be absolutely clear - the Major Character Death is neither Enjolras or R. They are both very much alive - promise!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Marius Returns

**Author's Note:**

> cw for talk of torture and character death

As the train rattled through the final tunnel, the lamps of the station gleaming into view, Marius tried not to fidget. It had been a long trip down from Antwerp, across the border into France using papers carefully procured for the purpose. With a bit of luck, his return to Reims would go largely unnoticed.

It had been two years since he had last walked these streets; two years since he had fled north to Belgium in the aftermath of the riots and the inevitable crack-down that had followed. Marius rubbed at his shoulder absently, the echo of a bullet still aching in his bones.

Not that he remembered that day with any kind of clarity, just images, smells and sounds. He could remember the start of it, the unbridled joy as they marched through Paris, the scent of possibility in the air, their voices raised as they protested the iron grip of the French dictatorship. He could hear Bahorel’s laugh, the resonating timbre of Enjolras’s voice as it carried across the crowd.

He remembered the screams, the press of the crowd, eight thousand bodies running in all directions, screaming and crying. The rising smoke, the water canon, the stampede once they realised the Guard were using live rounds. Not much more. Back in the present, Marius masked his tears by gazing out of the window into the darkness and blowing his nose.

By the time he was fully awake and ready to pay attention to the world, it had changed beyond all recognition. Bahorel dead, killed in the riot. Prouvaire as well, though he had been put up against a wall and shot. His body had been returned to his parents as a mark of respect to their position in society.

Enjolras, however, was a different matter. Marius shuddered. Enjolras arrested, one of the thousands scooped up and filtered off to secure locations round the country. Before Éponine could use her connections to find out exactly where he was, his name appeared on the list of the executed. It was a devastating blow.

Enjolras’s family had made it clear that they had no interest in the body being returned. Combeferre had actually written requesting that Enjolras be returned to Les Amis. The request had gone unanswered, which was all they had expected, but it had hurt nonetheless.

Then had begun the painful effort to try to continue. Grantaire was still unaccounted for after nearly two months. It took Éponine another three before he was located in a prison camp outside Rouen. It had been a simple matter of editing paperwork, getting the right signatures and blending the manipulation of events in with the usual bureaucracy. Grantaire literally walked free two weeks after he was found. It was a bittersweet victory of sorts.

Not that he was in any kind of state to return to them. The little finger of his right hand had been amputated, he was severely underweight and dehydrated and at some point a bullet had been removed from his gut. He wouldn’t speak to anyone, although Feuilly sat with him, the pair united in grief.

Poor Feuilly. The light in his eyes had gone out without Bahorel’s sturdy presence. There had been significantly less laughter.

Marius caught only a glimpse of R as he embraced Courfeyrac and Combeferre before he walked out of the door. Less than a month later they read in the papers of the death of a senior French politician in Caen. The man had been shot between the eyes, the gun held against his head. Courf and Ferre had shared a look but passed no comment. A month after that, two more deaths, one after the other, in Brix and then Bricquebec. Two more officials, same MO as before.

“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Courf had muttered as he read the article. Combeferre, face closed, eyes hard, had turned the page.

“What did you think he was going to do?” came the empty reply.

And so it continued in that little house in Reims. People coming and going. Courfeyrac and Combeferre trying their best to lead in Enjolras’s absence, and every so often they would hear from R in the form of another death.

Marius asked to leave, to be transferred somewhere he could be useful, to do anything other than sit there and watch his friends slowly disintegrate before his eyes. Combeferre found him a job up in Antwerp, working as an administrator in an investigative unit. As a former member of Les Amis, Marius had been considered a “valuable commodity”, and while he was somewhat sceptical of this, he had tried his best.

Two years of trying his best later, he was now back in France and it was as if no time had passed at all, as if his life in Belgium had been a pleasant dream before waking back in the reality of his old life.

He ignored the cabs outside the station in favour of walking. Curfew was an hour away, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself by taking a cab off the rank. The night air was cold, refreshing, helping clear his mind.

He needed Combeferre. To get to Combeferre he needed Éponine. He kept his hands in his pocket, not only to drive out the cold, but to prevent them from reaching up to press his heart, to feel the envelope in his inside pocket.

His pace quickened as he turned down the street leading towards Éponine’s building. There were still people out, all moving with heads down and shoulders bowed, glancing anxiously at their watches. He stepped off the curb, crossing quickly as he saw his chance, the door to the block opened by someone exiting. He darted forward to capture it and slipped inside.

He was so close, his heart hammering in his chest as he mounted the stairs two at a time. Éponine lived on the fourth floor at the far end of the corridor, so no one ever went to her door accidentally. She probably already knew he was in the building.

He was still shocked when the door opened and he was pulled violently inside before being shoved against the wall with a knife to his throat.

“Ep,” he croaked, trying to relax. He felt the grip on his shirt loosen.

“Fuck’s sake, Marius, you shouldn’t be here.”

Éponine hadn’t changed much. She was still too thin, her long black hair neatly tied back. She glared at him as she kicked the door shut, tucking the knife away into her boot before turning her back on him.

“I had to come,” he tried to explain, feeling joy at seeing his old friend again, knowing how happy he was about to make her, but she cut him off.

“It’s amazing you weren’t picked up at the border,” her voice was tremulous with anger.

“No, but listen,” he tried again, reaching into his pocket, pulling the envelope from its hiding place.

“I need you to look at something, it’s important.”

“I don’t have time for this. You being here is extremely dangerous,” she turned back, but she didn’t even glance at the envelope, instead grabbing Marius by the shoulder, pushing him towards the door. “You’re going to get us both shot.”

“Will you just look at the damned photo!” Marius hadn’t meant to shout, he clamped a hand over his own mouth in horror as Éponine stared at him wide eyed in furious disbelief. There were a few moments of horrible silence, each with their breaths held.

Finally Éponine relaxed, anger still flickering in her eyes.

“Fine,” she snatched the envelope from his hand, opening it quickly before pulling its contents free. The colour drained from her face.

“Fuck!” she actually slumped to her knees, a shaky hand reaching to tug at her hair. Then she turned to look up at Marius, eyes wide.

“Where did you get this?”

“Valjean had me looking through some reconnaissance photos, to see if any of the staff looked familiar. It was taken about six weeks ago, eight weeks at most. Somewhere outside Angers.”

Éponine was back on her feet, moving towards the telephone. It was an old fashioned phone, the dial clicking as it rotated. Marius had missed that sound.

“9, 18, 32, 3” she said into the receiver, her eyes still staring at the photo in her hand. There was a beat of silence.

“Ferre, it’s me. Enjolras is alive.”


	2. In Which We Go Back To The Start (And Marius Meets Les Amis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Europe was destroyed, and a young Marius bumps into a new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this chapter is set about six years prior to chapter one. It's mostly (important) back story so please bear with me!  
> CW for terrorist activity including bio-terrorism.  
> This is un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine.

The decimation of Europe had taken only six months. Six months from the first bomb blast in London to the final dismantling of the European Union.

London fell in a month; not that anybody would have thought such a thing possible. When reports started to filter through of bombs on the Tube, an explosion at Buckingham Palace and at the Palace of Westminster, Facebook and Twitter were overrun with people sending messages of goodwill from across the world, France included. 

The day after the bombings, the city was limping but not cowed, not on its knees just yet. Britain did what it had always done; it carried on. Already speculation was in full swing as to who was behind the attacks on the city, with experts brought in to discuss the matter extensively on the news. Memorials were set up to the dead. Calls were made for enquiries into the performance of the emergency services, while the newspapers concentrated on individual hero stories; stories of the guy who had pulled the pregnant woman out of the wreckage of a bus, as well as the woman who had held the hand of an old lady in a bombed-out tube train while they waited to be rescued.

When people started getting sick, it wasn’t widely reported in the international press, not at first. Some of the broadsheets ran a paragraph or two on page eighteen, but nothing more than that, especially not with an explosion on a bus in Rome to otherwise engage their attention. 

It was only when the French Ambassador in London, his wife and two children died within forty-eight hours of each other that the French media really took up the story. By that time, over two thousand people had already died.

The connection between the explosions and the new plague were drawn when it was reported that Italian hospitals were now overrun with new cases, all with the same symptoms seen in London; paralysis, respiratory failure, swellings of the lymph nodes, necrosis, seizures, and high fever. The hospitals, already struggling due to the number of casualties from the bombings, collapsed under the weight of so many new admissions. 

Efforts were made to contain the outbreak. London went into lockdown, with all flights in and out of England cancelled until further notice. At the end of the first month, four million people in England alone had died.

It didn’t end with London and Rome. There were explosions in Berlin, Amsterdam, Madrid and Vienna. France did not wait for the bombs to come to Paris. Emergency meetings were held, new laws were put in place. But it was all no avail. The terrorists struck, the plague came, and France fell to her knees.

Marius was too young to remember all that had happened. He only knew the details from the stories his Papa used to tell him when he was a small boy, and from the ranting of his Grandfather. He knew that two million people died before the plague ran its course. He knew that his mother had been in Paris visiting a friend and had never returned. Baby Marius, his Papa and his Grandfather, safely situated in Tours, survived. 

He knew that the Interim Government that took over in the initial aftermath of the crisis had somehow managed to get France into some semblance of order out the chaos; got the survivors back into work, gave society a purpose. They weren’t known as the only agriculturally self-sufficient country in Europe for nothing.

They introduced rationing, dismantled the cellphone network and prohibited the use of cars for private transport. More emergency laws were introduced along with a curfew. These laws, they argued, were for the protection of the people. An extraordinary amount of the population had died; it must never be allowed to happen again. People said they didn’t mind the restrictions to their lives if it meant that they were safe. After all, why would you mind if you had nothing to hide? People were grateful.

Marius didn’t remember what it was like before all this happened. One of his earliest memories was his Papa taking him to Charles de Gaulle airport and showing him the planes, the great metal creatures that, so his Papa said, could carry people in the air. But Marius had never seen one fly.

The internet was something that he read about in books, something dangerous that helped terrorists organise their attacks. Mobile Phones were what terrorists used to communicate with each other, and what triggered bombs left in public spaces. Technology, Marius’s teachers had said, was to be feared. But at night, before he went to sleep, Marius would beg his Papa to tell him stories about when Papa was young, about computers and mobile phones and being able to talk to someone on the other side of the world. He listened, wide eyed, to his Papa’s stories, feeling that there was something magical about that world.

When Marius was ten, his Papa went out one day and didn’t come back and there were no more stories. The only thing his Grandfather told him was that his Papa was a damn fool idealist who was just asking to be shot. Marius didn’t ask his Grandfather any more questions.

+

Marius checked his pocket for his ID and his coupons before heading out into the street. It was Thursday which meant his Grandfather wanted to have boiled eggs for his supper. The cantankerous old man was very particular about his routine and it was far easier for Marius to indulge his whims rather than risk his wrath which could be terrible.

He made his way towards the grocers, grateful that there wasn’t too much of a queue today. Marius had often wondered how the grocer managed to close their shop when there were always at least five people standing in front of the counter waiting to be served. He had three coupons which meant three eggs; not enough for both him and his Grandfather. Marius would be satisfied with the home made vegetable soup waiting in a pan on the stove at home.

As he stood in the queue, he listened to the people immediately in front of him tut over the price of meat, trying not to let the wretchedness of his situation overwhelm him. The grocer eyed him suspiciously as he approached the counter. Marius carefully counted out the coupons and the correct money which was swept away into the till before the precious eggs were issued to him. With his task completed, he turned to exit the shop.

Marius wasn’t entirely sure what happened next. One moment he was upright, then the next he was sprawled across the pavement having collided heavily with someone who had been rushing the other way.

“Oh, I’m so sorry there, friend,” a cheerful voice called out to him. Marius tried to organise his thoughts a little, his vision focussing on the outstretched hand before him. Looking up, he saw the hand belonged to a young man with broad shoulders and a winning smile. “Can I help you up?”

Marius grasped the outstretched hand before staggering to his feet.

“Thank you,” he wheezed, before spying his precious box of eggs on the floor. “Oh no!” he moaned, knowing before he turned the box over exactly what he was about to find. The three eggs were now smashed to smithereens.

“I say, can’t you look where you’re going?!” he cried, looking back up accusingly at the man responsible. He looked to be a few years older than Marius, holding up his hands in apology.

“I am very sorry,” he replied earnestly, his face the very picture of regret. But apologies weren’t going to do Marius any good. He closed his eyes, imagining what his grandfather was going to say about the fact that his supper was now decorating the pavement.

A hand on his arm caused him to look up. Soft brown eyes stared down at him, still with concern, but something else as well. The man glanced over his shoulder, looking up and down the apparently empty street. Then he leaned forward into Marius’s personal space.

“I can replace those,” he murmured in Marius’s ear. 

Ten minutes later, Marius found himself following the guy up a spiral marble staircase towards the top floor of an old apartment building. He swallowed nervously, aware that he had taken a terrible risk by agreeing to this. Of course, he was aware of the trading that took place on the Black Market, but this was the first time anyone had approached him in such a manner, and in broad daylight as well.

The stranger stopped outside a heavy wooden door on the top floor of the building. It took him a few moments to unlock the door, before he stepped forward, beckoning for Marius to follow.

For a moment, he remained awkwardly in the hallway before curiosity finally got the better of him and he stepped through a door on his right into a lounge. Arranged around the room somewhat haphazardly were a number of sofas and chaise-longs. Marius’s footsteps echoed against the wooden floor as he walked over to the first of many bookshelves surrounding the room, idly glancing at the spines.

The books were old and worn, their spines cracked from use, but Marius didn’t immediately recognise any titles. Then his eye fell upon one he did recognise and his blood froze. He knew, for a fact, that this title was on the Prohibited Items list. He quickly stepped back away from the shelf, as though fearful that the illegality of the texts might stain his fingers.

His eye then fell upon a desk by the window which contained a number of items in glass display cases. He leaned forward to take a look at the black object closest to him.

“See anything you like?” the sudden loud voice made him jump, a fresh blush painting his cheeks. But the stranger’s smile was easy and relaxed and Marius calmed down.

“Is that…?” he gestured to the object in the case. His companion peered over his shoulder. “Is that a mobile telephone?”

Marius had heard of them. He had seen photographs in his history text books at school. But he had never actually seen one.

“Yes,” came the casual reply, as though it was no big deal. “Doesn’t work, of course. And even if it did, the network has long since been dismantled.”

“So why keep it?” Marius turned back to look at the strange object once more, pondering its use. He was surprised when the guy chuckled.

“Because it’s important. It reminds us that it existed. It’s a symbol that once upon a time people dreamt of the future in all its potential glory, rather than yearning for the ‘good ole days’ of the past, that weren’t actually that good.”

Marius wasn’t sure he had understood a word of what had been said, but he didn’t have time to ponder further, as the guy held out a box to him. He accepted it, peeking inside. He gasped. There were half a dozen eggs in the box.

“Oh, I can’t accept these,” Marius stuttered, closing the box. The benevolent stranger shrugged his shoulders, refusing to take the box back.

“We have spare,” he replied casually, but Marius continued to hold out the box to him.

“No, you don’t understand,” he insisted, still shaking his head. “My Grandfather knows how many coupons I had, and he knows the grocer doesn’t give out anything for free.”

Light dawned on the man’s face and he finally accepted the box back, moving to return to the kitchen, Marius following behind.

“Smart thinking!” he said, taking the extra eggs out of the box before returning the now lighter box to Marius who accepted it gratefully.

“I’m Courfeyrac, by the way,” he held out his hand, looking expectant. After a short pause, Marius took it, shaking it politely.

“Marius Pontmercy,” he replied.

“Well, Marius Pontmercy, are you a student?” Marius nodded, feeling struck dumb by that smile, which only grew wider at his reply.

“How would you like to join me this evening for a little… study group?”

+

“Where have you been, boy?” His Grandfather’s determined voice called out from the bedroom as he stepped back through his front door. He had run all the way back, acutely aware of the time that had passed.

“Sorry, Grandfather, the queue was really long,” he replied, heading towards the kitchen. He immediately set a pan upon the stove with the intention of starting the supper at once. The ceiling above his head shook as his Grandfather banged the bedroom floor with his stick, demanding attention.

“Where are my eggs, boy?” the old man bellowed. Marius sighed, electing not to respond. Instead, his mind was engaged with the prospect of seeing Courfeyrac again that very night.

+

The man that opened the door was not Courfeyrac. The eyes and hair were brown, certainly, but curly rather than wavy. This man was also a lot taller than Courferyac and had a frankly terrifying scar running down over his right eye almost to his chin. He leant against the door frame, folding his arms.

“Well, little morsel, you certainly look delectable. But before I consume you for your stupidity of knocking upon this door, I provide you with one chance, and one chance alone to answer me this,” he paused to give Marius a wolfish grin. “What is your purpose here?”

Marius swallowed, nervously.

“Is Courfeyrac here?” he stammered, feeling that there must have been some dreadful mistake. The terrifying man grinned at him before shouting over his shoulder.

“Monsieur de Courferyac? Your dinner appears to have arrived!” the man pushed himself up off the door frame, allowing Marius access to the apartment. With tremendous relief he spotted Courfeyrac barrelling towards him. As he passed the man who had opened the door, Courfeyrac cuffed the back of his head in faux admonishment. The man cackled, before running out of the hall.

“Ignore Grantaire. He thinks he’s hilarious,” Courfeyrac said by way of greeting, pulling Marius inside and shutting the door behind him. “Come in and meet everyone.”

What had been an empty room of sofas that afternoon was now filled with an assortment of young men. 

Grantaire was stretched out on a sofa, his head resting in the lap of a thin young man with strawberry blonde hair whose nose was in a book while he carded his hand through unruly brown curls.

“This is Jean Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac gestured to where a pair of green eyes appeared over the top of the book, and Marius got the overwhelming sensation that he was being judged, before the book was lowered and he was afforded a lazy smile.

“Jehan,” he corrected, holding out a hand, palm down as though expecting Marius to kiss it. He didn’t need Courfeyrac’s nudge to reach out to grasp it, automatically brushing his lips against the smooth knuckles, feeling the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. As he stood back up, he realised from Jehan’s approving smile that it had been the right thing to do.

“Jehan is single-handedly responsible for all the books in here,” Courf advised, voice filled with pride. Jehan rolled his eyes.

“That is not at all true,” he admonished Courfeyrac lightly. “All the Homer and Virgil are entirely Grantaire’s,” He petted Grantaire’s head which was still in his lap and the man purred happily.

There was a tremendous crash from the kitchen followed by a series of oaths. Marius looked up at Courfeyrac in alarm but the guy simply rolled his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Bossuet!” he cried out, light-heartedly. “Stop breaking the kitchen!”

There was a roar of laughter and someone pushed past him, a man with light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Marius watched him, aware that he was gawping. He followed Courfeyrac into the kitchen where he found the brown-haired man fussing over a taller, and decidedly balder man nursing his arm. At the kitchen table was another guy, bigger and wider than the other two, all muscle, with a cigarette hanging obscenely from his lips.

“Now really, you know better than to accept an arm-wrestling challenge from Bahorel!” the fussing man scolded, squeezing all up the injured man’s arm. 

“That’s Joly,” Courfeyrac gestured over to the fussing brunet, who paused to nod stiffly at Marius. The subject of his attention gave him a cheerful smile before wincing as Joly reached a particularly tender spot on his arm. “And that’s Lesgle. Though everyone calls him Bossuet.”

Marius was sure he was never going to remember any of these people, there was just too many of them. He looked over at the huge man, Bahorel, who gave him a double thumbs up as Marius introduced him.

“Just don’t drink with him, or gamble with him, or ever agree to any kind of physical contest with him. He will break you,” Courfeyrac advised, somewhat unnecessarily, Marius thought. Bahorel shouted out in protest but Courf just grinned at him before dragging Marius back into the living room.

More faces, more names; Marius was beginning to feel dizzy.

A tall blond man sat in the corner with another man whose attention was entirely consumed by the book on his lap. The blond watched the rest of the gathered group with keen eyes. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as those eyes settled upon him. Courfeyrac pushed him in the back.

“Come on, Enjolras won’t bite,” he chided, lightly. There was a snort from the sofa. 

“Oh yes he will,” Grantaire muttered in a dark voice. Courfeyrac ignored him.

“Enjolras, Combeferre; this is Marius Pontmercy. I am afraid I broke his eggs,” Courfeyrac wrung his hands, smiling playfully. Marius thought it was an unusual way to introduce anybody. Enjolras remained impassive while Combeferre looked up from his book with interest.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Enjolras spoke after a moment and Marius was struck by how warm and rich the man’s voice was. Although, man was not quite an accurate description. Enjolras looked to be the same age as he, though perhaps he sat a little straighter and his expression was more severe.

Not long after, the meeting seemed to get under way. Marius listened, for the most part, though he struggled to keep up with the flow of the topics. There was a rabble of conversation as each man took his turn. Enjolras spoke the most, and the others would join in with additional points and counter points.

“Thirty minute warning, lads!” a rusty-haired man sitting with Bahorel called out to a general groan in the room.

“Bloody curfew!” various voices grumbled.

“But, surely it’s there for our safety?” Marius had intended the question for Courfeyrac alone, but unfortunately he spoke a lot louder than he meant to and the entire room fell silent.

“Do you feel safe?” Combeferre rose from his seat next to Enjolras, fixing Marius with a stare through the glasses perched on his nose. He moved to stand in front of Marius who cowered where he sat. “Or do you feel afraid?”

Marius blanched before dropping his head, feeling his heart sink. With a final scornful look, Combeferre strode away from him. Courf stood up suddenly, following his friend from the room.

Conversation in the room resumed and Marius got up, hoping to slip out unnoticed. However, he was intercepted by Grantaire who steered him away from the exit towards the kitchen.

“Never mind, little _amuse-bouche_ ,” Grantaire grinned at him. Marius tried not to stare at his scar. “I will teach you to heckle like a true professional!”

Marius supposed that was meant to be comforting. The man patted his shoulder before returning to the living room.

As he was leaving, Marius saw through the kitchen doorway Grantaire approach Enjolras who was standing by the sink, leaning against the counter, arms folded. He saw the brunet lean close, resting his forehead against Enjolras, while the other raised a hand to Grantaire’s cheek.

“Let’s get you home, shall we?” Courfeyrac snapped his attention back to the present, stepping between Marius and the open kitchen door. If Courfeyrac had seen the interaction between Enjolras and Grantaire he didn’t comment on it. “Curfew starts in half an hour so we might have to run.”

That night, as Marius lay in bed, his mind whirling with the events of the evening, it didn’t occur to him that his whole life had just changed for ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response to chapter one which has spurred me into getting this down and out there.


	3. In Which The Remaining Amis Gather To Discuss What Must Be Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is looking to their Guide for a plan to find Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for talk of violence

“What I would really like to know,” Joly spoke up suddenly, looking pointedly at Eponine who glared back at him, “is why it has taken two years for us to realise Enjolras isn’t dead?”

Combeferre sighed and rubbed at his forehead. It was a lot to take in. He had spent a long time coming to terms with the death of his best friend. More than that, he had watched his other friends struggle with Enjolras’s absence. He was delighted, of course, that they had apparently been mistaken. But he was also angry, hurt and confused. Angry at himself for having believed the lie, for giving up so quickly. If it had been him, or R, or any of the others, then Enjolras would have torn the world apart looking for them.

He looked back down at the photograph on the table. It was undeniably Enjolras. He was only just in the frame of the photo, and from what Marius said this was the only one of a set of ten taken in which he appeared. It was impossible to tell whether he was healthy or injured but he was most certainly there and that was a start.

He forced himself to tear his eyes away to look around the room. It was a much smaller gathering than the old days of Les Amis. Apart from the obvious and painful absences of Enjolras, Jehan and Bahorel, there was also an empty chair that would usually have been occupied by R, and one for Courfeyrac who was away in Ireland on an assignment. Combeferre closed his eyes, contemplating having to tell Courfeyrac that their chief was not as dead as they thought.

Eponine was leaning against the back of a sofa, arms folded defensively. As the inside contact point for information for Les Amis, she had the overwhelming sensation that she was being blamed, that she had somehow dropped the ball. Being a Level 3 Administrator for the Gendarmerie had its perks, and she did her job incredibly well, but she didn’t have access to all areas, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been trying to get as much information as possible without giving herself away.

In the immediate aftermath of the Paris riots, when the whole of France was in complete chaos, she had somehow managed to obtain a copy of every detainee list looking for familiar names. It wasn’t as if Enjolras was a particularly unusual or unknown name. Besides, Enjolras’s name had appeared on a list, which is how they came to know of his ‘death’ in the first place.

“I’ve been doing my research,” she replied, meeting Joly’s gaze, her chin stuck out in defiance. “It’s not a prison camp, it’s a hospital. That’s why Enjolras isn’t on any of the prisoner lists.”

A couple of heads snapped in her direction. Feuilly who, up until that point, had been sitting in silence, smoking and watching, now exhaled, his head on one side.

“What kind of hospital?” Eponine shrugged, her forehead crinkled.

“That’s the weird thing, I don’t know. There are hardly any records for it. It’s not a General Hospital as far as I can tell, but it employs six hundred staff.”

“That’s not unusual,” Joly commented, mouth pinched in a frown. Eponine glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.

“Only thirty of those are doctors,” she replied, flatly. Silence returned to the room as they mulled that over.

“Isn’t it slightly terrifying that a formal death certificate was issued for Enjolras and he’s not dead?” Bossuet spoke up. “I mean, who else is alive?”

“Could it be a case of mistaken identity?” Marius asked, tentatively. It had been weighing on his mind since Antwerp. What if there was more than one Enjolras, and they had just assumed that the one on the list was their Enjolras? However, his idea was universally shouted down almost immediately. 

“It’s extremely unlikely,” Eponine replied, her voice dark. “Enjolras has always been on everyone’s Most Wanted list. He was an icon.” There was a general murmur of agreement in the room. Everyone, especially the French Government, knew who Enjolras was. 

“It doesn’t make sense for them to have kept him alive,” Eponine muttered absently, almost to herself. She had been working for the government for at least ten years. Now the devil she knew was acting very suspiciously and out of character indeed. “Executing him was the smart move.”

Bossuet growled at her words, Joly resting a restraining hand on his sleeve.

“Hey,” Eponine’s voice was aggressively defensive. “Don’t get stroppy with me just because it’s true.”

“Eponine is right,” Combeferre intervened. “Think like the enemy. Killing Enjolras was the smart move. The last thing they would have wanted was for the golden boy of the revolution to resurface.”

“So what do we do?” Feuilly looked to Combeferre with gentle eyes, as if the answer was obvious but that he needed to hear it from the Guide himself. Combeferre sighed. He did that a lot these days. He absolutely hated being in charge. Plans he could do, but it had always been Enjolras who carried them out, with Courfeyrac providing the moral support. But neither of them were here right now.

“What choice do we have? Enjolras is in Angers. All in favour of going to Angers?”

Everyone raised their hands. Combeferre nodded in recognition of the vote.

“Feuilly?” Combeferre drummed his fingers together. The redhead winced slightly before raising his eyes. He already knew what was coming.

“I need you to find R for me. He’s going to want to know about this.”

+

The bar was dark, the lamps on the wall kept deliberately low. People minded their own business in this place. It was perfect. Feuilly ordered a beer, all too aware of the eyes on his back. He paid for his drink without haggling the horribly inflated price. He knew they were taking advantage of the fact that he was from out of town, but he wasn’t in the mood for fuss. He was tired and dirty but none of that mattered right now. He walked purposefully over to a table occupied by a cloaked figure, sliding uninvited into the seat.

“You’re a hard man to find,” he greeted, toasting the figure with his beer. Beneath the hood, he saw the figure’s mouth twist into a grin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the man said, and Feuilly’s heart hurt him to hear that voice again after far too long, “I think I left a comprehensive trail.”

Grantaire reached out his hand and Feuilly took it, clamping it in an iron grip of old friendship. He had missed Grantaire so much. He understood of course, knew why his friend had left, what he had been up to for the past two years. At the last count, Grantaire had been responsible for the highly undemocratic removal of fifty-six members of the French government. Feuilly had often wondered if Enjolras would have been proud or appalled of everything his cynic had achieved.

“Tell Ferre the answer is still no,” Grantaire released Feuilly’s hand before reaching for his own glass.

“That’s not why I’m here, R,” Feuilly tried to interrupt but Grantaire, swallowing his beer quickly, shook his head impatiently.

“I got him, Feuilly. That last one? He was the one who pulled the trigger on Jehan.”

Silence sat heavy between them, each man lost in their own painful memories. Feuilly flexed his fingers. He wasn’t sure how he felt to hear that. There was relief but he still felt empty. Jehan, and his beautiful smile, his flashing eyes and soft kisses for all. 

“Did it make you feel better?” Feuilly hadn’t intended his tone to be so aggressive but R seemed to take it in good faith.

“Not even close,” R settled back in his chair, taking another sip of his drink, eyes staring over to Feuilly, waiting for his next move. Feuilly sighed.

“I need you to look at something.” He fixed R with a gaze. This was why Combeferre had sent him rather than coming himself. If it was Combeferre sitting here then it was far too likely Grantaire would have just walked out of the door without a word. He would listen to Feuilly, and that’s all Feuilly needed. Once Grantaire understood, once he saw what was currently burning a hole in his pocket, he was fairly certain all declarations of “never going back” would be forgotten.

“Just look at it and then I’ll go.”

He saw R lick his lips with consideration, and when the man moved the light caught the rest of his face, throwing into sharp relief the scar that ran down vertically over the man’s right eye. Feuilly could see why people called him the Marked Assassin. Grantaire extended his hand and Feuilly’s eyes were automatically drawn to the mangled mess that had once been Grantaire’s little finger.

“Still manages to fire a gun,” R grinned, an ugly expression without warmth or mirth. Feuilly schooled his features and reached into his pocket, passing the envelope over.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. His own experience of seeing the photograph, of seeing his friend apparently alive, had been earth shattering.

The photo itself was not the best quality. It showed a line of people, assumed to be prisoners, being taken out of a van. Prisoners were moved every six months or so, especially high profile criminals. The subject of the photograph had clearly been the building. The people in the photo were entirely incidental. But there, off to the right, hair shaved but definitely recognisable, was Enjolras.

R stared at the image for a moment in complete silence. His expression didn’t change, didn’t even twitch. Feuilly held his breath, suddenly horribly aware of how out in public they were. It may be a bar where the clientele minded their own business, but both of them were strangers here, and R was far too recognisable. They should have left, gone outside or at least somewhere more private, less exposed.

After another moment, Grantaire rubbed his jaw, before putting the picture back in the envelope and returning it to Feuilly.

“Where are we going then?”

Feuilly grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this got really big really quickly. There's going to be a fair amount of hopping around between then and now (probably alternate chapters)
> 
> Erm... any questions?


	4. In Which Marius Meets Eponine and an Assignment Goes Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius gets himself in trouble but it's ok because Courfeyrac is there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for violence, dubious interrogation practices and a death (no one important, I promise)

Marius may have been young but he wasn’t stupid. The names “Enjolras” or “Les Amis” did not carry the weight they would a year or two later, but it was quite clear that Courfeyrac’s “study group” was not all that it first appeared.

Courfeyrac came and went, disappearing for a few days before popping up again. He told Marius that he and his friends weren’t from Tours, but that they made use of an apartment owned by Combeferre’s parents. All the others were considerably older than Marius, Bahorel being the eldest at twenty-seven, while Joly was the youngest at twenty-three.

Courfeyrac took Marius out for lunches, invited him over to the apartment to read books and discuss ideas. It was only ever Courfeyrac; the others, Marius was told, were busy on other assignments. Marius knew he was being courted for the cause, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Eventually, Courfeyrac told him what the others were working on. They had acquired a printing press. Enjolras had always wanted a printing press so that they could effectively communicate their ideas without having to hold secret meetings around the country, risking arrest. As much as he was dying to ask, Marius knew better than to enquire how or where they had found such an item.

Marius listened open-mouthed as Courfeyrac told him about Les Amis, how they wanted to change things for the better in France, make people see that the future was not to be feared.

“Enjolras has the vision, Combeferre has the logic, and I’m the glue holding the whole wacky idea together!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. Marius found it hard not to be attracted to the sparkling eyes, bright smile and general warm exuberance of this young man.

He was greatly relieved to learn that they didn’t expect him to actually hand out any of the leaflets they were making with the printing press. Courfeyrac assured him that they were not so suicidal as to be standing around on the open streets, handing their ideas out to passersby as though they were preachers. 

But he did give Marius the frequency for the ABC Radio station which broadcast on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays for two hours. Marius listened with the volume turned right down, his ear practically pressed against the speaker, in constant terror that his Grandfather might hear.

Mostly they played music, an eclectic combination of tracks, all of which featured on the Prohibited List either for their inflammatory lyrics or because the artist was considered Incompatible With France.

In between the tracks, prepared statements were read out. Marius recognised the voices of Joly and Bossuet, but the rhetoric was distinctly Enjolras with Combeferre’s influence and Courfeyrac’s easy turn of phrase. Their aims were clear; an end to Marshal Law, a return to democracy, a clear and transparent system of government, the removal of restrictions relating to the use and development of technology in France and an amnesty for all imprisoned protestors and dissenters.

The episodes always ended the same way. _To dream, to look forward, to hope – these were not crimes and the young will not stand idle. We will have a future or nothing at all._

Marius listened in awe at the audacity of some of the statements. He hated to think what would happen if his friends were discovered and arrested. Being caught listening to these illegal stations was enough to earn you two years in a prison camp, never mind actually broadcasting.

The last time he visited Combeferre’s apartment in Tours, Grantaire, Enjolras and Jehan had been present as well as Courfeyrac. It was an easy atmosphere as the friends discussed the various merits of arranging for the newly printed leaflets to be left on trains and buses for people to pick up.

A petty argument broke out between Enjolras and Grantaire after the latter insisted that all their hard work may as well be used for toilet paper rather than lining the waste bins at railway stations.

Marius left them to it, but he was sorry to leave. However, Curfew was pending and so, with a smile and a wave, he left the apartment. Just as he closed the door he heard Courfeyrac promising to meet him for lunch tomorrow. He looked forward to it.

+

“Where have you been, boy?” his Grandfather roared as he stepped through the door. Marius sighed, not bothering to take his coat off as he made his way upstairs.

“You ungrateful youth! I brought you up single-handedly and this is how you repay me! Leaving a poor old dying man alone by himself!” The old man was sitting up in bed looking murderous, walking stick in hand. He bashed it impatiently against the floor and Marius flinched.

“I was gone for two hours,” Marius implored, his ears red. He hated this. He wished he had stayed at the apartment with his friends.

“Where were you anyway?” his grandfather demanded. Marius paused, not wanting to say, but that only enraged the man further.

“Speak, you wretch! Tell me where it is you spend all these hours. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking around behind my back. It’s bound to be illegal whatever it is, you’re just like your father…”

“Shut up!” Marius shouted, surprising himself. His hands were clenched tightly by his side. “I hate you! I can’t stand this anymore,” and with that, he turned and ran from the room, ignoring his Grandfather’s shouts.

He burst into his room, grabbed his school bag and stuffed some clothes and books into it, before running down the stairs.

“You’ll never see me again, I can promise you that!” he shouted up the stairs before slamming out of the house.

He was two streets away before he realised what a terrible mistake he had made. It was after Curfew. As he tiptoed along in the shadows, he hoped he would at least be able to make it to the apartment. It was still early, after all. Maybe he would be lucky. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A dangerous voice chuckled as he turned a corner.

Apparently luck was not with him that night.

+

Courfeyrac wasn’t immediately worried when Marius failed to meet him for lunch. He walked up from their rendezvous point towards Marius’s college, thinking perhaps the boy had been detained by one of his teachers. Or maybe he was in the library and had forgotten the time. He made polite conversation with the office secretary and managed to ascertain that Marius had not been in that day. He was also not in the library.

Feeling somewhat confused, Courf made his way towards Marius’s neighbourhood, keeping his eyes peeled for light brown hair and freckles. There was no sign of Marius. Finally, with no other option, Courfeyrac knocked on Marius’s front door. At his third knock, a neighbour stuck her head out.

“The boy isn’t there,” she snapped, as though Courfeyrac had personally insulted her. Courf frowned.

“Where is he?” he enquired, suddenly feeling rather anxious.

“How am I supposed to know?” The woman retorted. “Ungrateful brat stormed out late last night. Went to be with his ‘friends’ I expect,” she screwed up her face with distaste. “Leaving his poor Grandfather alone like that – he should be ashamed!” With that she slammed the door shut.

Courfeyrac swallowed. Marius was missing. He took off at a run, heading towards the train station. Only one person could help him now.

+

Marius sat in the dark, curled up tightly on the hard stone floor of his cell. He had no idea where he was and he didn’t care. His Grandfather was right; he was just like his father. He wondered what would happen to him now.

Being arrested hadn’t been as bad as he imagined. He had been searched, his bag had been confiscated. In his haste to leave he had forgotten his ID so the Guardsmen who had picked him up had shoved him in a transport vehicle to be taken somewhere for processing. He wasn’t sure how long the journey had taken or in what direction, but he was certainly no longer in Tours. So far no one had hit him or abused him. He had been provided with soup and water and now he had been left alone.

He slept, or at least he thought he did. It was hard to tell being in the dark all the time. At some point he was taken from his cell, allowed to relieve himself. He was given another portion of soup and then returned to his cell.

He covered his eyes as the door to his cell was opened again and he was escorted out, down the corridor but this time to another small room containing a table and two chairs. Ah, he was going to be interrogated.

They were very basic questions; what was his name, where did he live. Those questions he answered. When they asked him why he had broken Curfew, what possible reason he could have had for being out at that time of night, with a bag of clothing and books, he said nothing. It went on and on. After a while he was taken back to his cell and this time there was no soup and no water. He was left to his thoughts.

He was woken by a bucket of water being thrown over him. He sat, shivering and soaked to the skin in the interrogation room while the same questions were fired at him by a different person. He continued to say nothing and so they returned him to the dark and the stone floor.

He supposed eventually he would be sent somewhere else. A Youth Programme, probably, given that he was still under eighteen. No doubt they had already established who he was. Or maybe they didn’t care. They didn’t permit him to sleep. A loud siren tore through the air at regular periods and still he was denied food and water.

He was provided a bucket which he had to slop out himself, a frankly disgusting task. However, he felt a stab of pride at being more than equal to it, having waited on his Grandfather on more than one occasion. He wondered if Courfeyrac would be proud of him.

They left him alone again, probably bored of his silence. Marius tried to work out how he felt. Maybe his father had once sat upon this very floor. What had happened next, nobody knew, but Marius was sure he would soon find out. He would never see his friends again.

He blinked as the door opened once more and a woman stepped into the room. She was tall and thin, dressed smartly in a suit, her dark black hair knotted up in a bun. She smiled at Marius.

“Come on, then,” she said, her voice bright as she jerked her head. Marius stared at her for a moment, before climbing to his feet in order to follow her. As he left the cell, she closed and locked it, wiping his name from the chalk board beside it.

“How are you doing?” she asked lightly, looking him up and down. Marius supposed he must look quite a sight. His clothes were several days old, had been slept in and had survived having water thrown over them. 

“Fine,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. To his surprise, the woman let out a quiet laugh.

“I give that about thirty seconds,” she muttered to herself. She reached the end of the corridor and opened the door.

“He says he’s fine,” she said, speaking to someone on the other side of the door. Then she stood aside, holding the door and gesturing Marius to go through it. Feeling decidedly confused, Marius obeyed.

Courfeyrac was pacing the floor. At sight of Marius he stopped, before stepping forward, seizing the other man by the shoulders and staring into his eyes.

“My friend, are you all right?” Courfeyrac’s hands trembled against his shoulders, providing a strange warmth and a sense of reality to the scene.

“Courfeyrac,” Marius spluttered, unable to say anything else. At the sound of his name, Courfeyrac gathered Marius into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I could,” Courf murmured into Marius’s shoulder. He broke away at the sound of a sharp cough behind them.

“If you two could get a bloody move on. Some of us would like to get out of here in one piece,” the woman was looking pointedly at her watch. Courf nodded. He took Marius’s hand and pulled him towards the stairs.

“You’ve got about seven minutes until matey on the desk goes for his fag break. I’ll sort out the paperwork. Just get as far away as you can,” she spoke quickly and efficiently. Finally she pressed a kiss to Courf’s cheek.

“That’s for Combeferre,” she smiled, and Courf squeezed her hand tightly.

“See you soon, Ep,” Courf muttered, before dragging Marius up the stairs, leaving the woman behind.

Marius had so many questions but he sensed that now was not the time. They succeeded in walking out of the building as though they owned the place, Courfeyrac providing Marius with a trench coat which had the double effect of hiding his shabby clothes and keeping out the cold. Two streets away was a cab which, judging by the way Courf greeted the driver, had been waiting for them deliberately. It took them to the train station where they boarded the last train before Curfew. Courfeyrac handed the train guard tickets, some papers and, Marius was fairly certain, a large number of bills.

He was hustled into a compartment which, mercifully, they had to themselves and Marius collapsed onto a seat. Courfeyrac sat down opposite him, producing a lunchbox from his bag and urging Marius to eat the sandwiches within.

“What just happened?” Marius asked, feeling completely exhausted. Courfeyrac gave him a small smile.

“You’re the luckiest bastard in all of Paris,” he replied.

“Is that where we are?” Marius looked out of the window, half expecting to see the Eiffel Tower. Courf nodded, his face serious.

“Took Eponine two days to track you down.”

And that was how Marius first met Eponine.

+

They journeyed to Reims, arriving in the early hours of the morning. Their papers were stamped by the guardsmen as they left the train, giving them safe passage to travel to their destination without fear of being accosted again.

Courfeyrac jerked Marius away from the inviting cabs on the rank outside the station. The house was only a short walk away, Courf assured him. Marius didn’t care. He just wanted a bath and a proper bed. Courfeyrac chuckled as he muttered this out loud.

One final ordeal before he was permitted either of those things; Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire were at the house. They all enquired after his health, ignoring his exclamations of being fine, looking to Courfeyrac for the truth of the matter. Courf assured them that it was nothing a couple of night’s sleep and a decent meal or two wouldn’t cure.

Grantaire stood behind Enjolras, watching Marius over the blond’s shoulder, arms wrapped protectively round his waist. He rested their heads together and Marius was reminded of that first night, of the two of them in the kitchen, forehead against forehead, and Enjolras’s hand cupping Grantaire’s cheek.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac jerked his arm, pulling him out of his reverie. “Shower then bed?”

“Sounds perfect,” he smiled in response.

+

Marius’s first mission with Les Amis was four months after leaving Tours. He had adapted to his new life without much effort. He never got bored. There were all sorts of books to read, not to mention people coming and going. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac seemed to be permanent residents, and wherever Enjolras was you could guarantee R wasn’t far away.

It was Jehan who explained about Eponine. She worked for the Gendarmerie and had done for a number of years. She had voluntarily taken the job and had been passing information to Les Amis ever since. She didn’t get to see the boys as much as she liked but her information was invaluable. Not to mention, Marius wasn’t the first person who needed smuggling out of the System.

When Combeferre found out that Marius could read German he was asked to translate some documents that had been smuggled over the border and Marius was more than happy to be helpful. Courfeyrac had explained that it wouldn’t be possible for Marius to go home. Eponine might have fixed the paperwork so that Marius had effectively disappeared from the system, but that didn’t mean they should broadcast that. Marius understood. He didn’t want to go home anyway.

But now, Les Amis were stepping up their activities. Leaflets and radio broadcasts weren’t cutting it. The message was getting out there, but what they needed was a statement. Marius offered his services.

Bossuet was good with explosives. He had an excellent eye for knowing just how and where to place them to cause maximum effect. The man blushed as Joly sang his praises and Marius smiled at the pair of them.

It was meant to be a simple job. The factory was empty, an abandoned armaments warehouse. This was to be a test run, just to see if they could get in and out and the sort of damage that could be done. It should have been safe, a perfect first exercise.

Bossuet had already placed three of the four devices around the factory. They just needed to set this last one up and they would be done. They were all standing together, watching Bossuet work, except for R who had slunk off without anyone really noticing. The man moved like a shadow. It had freaked Marius out to start with, but he was slowly getting used to the man popping up at any given moment.

“Stop what you’re doing,” a cold voice rang out in the dark. Everyone froze. Bossuet looked over to Bahorel while Courfeyrac instinctively pulled Marius behind him, pushing him against a wall.

“Where’s R?” Bossuet whispered. Bahorel shook his head, eyes wide. _No idea_. 

“Well, well. Les Amis, isn’t it?” the voice in the dark continued. It was coming from somewhere over on the right. “Turn around, then. Slowly, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Bahorel looked at Courfeyrac and then back at Bossuet. Marius didn’t understand the look on his face, but at the next moment, Bahorel had breathed “ah, fuck it” under his breath and turned to run towards the shadows in the opposite direction of the voice.

A shot rang out.

“No!” Courfeyrac managed to grab Bossuet before the man could move. Bahorel had dropped onto the factory floor. Marius suddenly realised Courf’s other hand was clutching his arm tight enough to bruise, but he couldn’t stop staring and a small amount of terror started to make itself known in his head.

Bahorel groaned on the floor, twisting in pain, his left arm clamped over his right, just below the shoulder. A man stepped out of the shadows, walking deliberately over to him, the gun in his hand trained on them. Marius heard Courfeyrac hiss.

He stopped just in front of Bahorel, staring down at him in disgust before stomping down on the injured arm with his boot. Bahorel let out a terrible noise, the sound of someone desperately trying to keep the pain inside. There was an audible crack, the sound of Bahorel’s arm snapping.

“Shall I just put you out of your misery? Or shall I see how much you can take?” The man had a horrible smile on his face. Marius felt sick. He wanted to close his eyes but his whole body seemed to be in rebellion.

But then, the man froze and it took Marius a moment to realise why; there was a knife pushed against his throat.

“Hello friend,” Grantaire murmured, his whole body pressed tightly to the man in front of him, his mouth close to the man’s ear, almost intimate if not for the knife involved. The contrasting light and shadows in the warehouse threw R’s face into sharp relief, making his scar look even more gruesome than usual.

“Brujon!” the man shouted, panic evident in his tone. The knife was pressed even closer to his throat.

“Already dead,” Grantaire purred, swiftly negotiating the gun from the man’s grasp. Marius couldn’t take his eyes from Grantaire. To Marius’s surprise, Grantaire brushed a brief kiss the man’s cheek, a strangely dark gesture that made Marius shiver. Then, in a terrifyingly sudden and obviously practised movement, Grantaire slit the man’s throat. 

There was no sound. He quickly dropped to his knees, mouth attempting to form some sort of scream or words before he finally keeled over onto the floor. Silence flooded the room, except for the pulse of blood in Marius’s ears. Courf squeezed his arm, keeping him grounded.

Grantaire looked up, his gaze falling on Courfeyrac. It was an empty look, devoid of any recognisable emotion. Then he reached out to Bahorel, pulling the groaning man to his feet, muttering something Marius couldn’t hear. Bahorel cradled his injured arm, nodding his head at whatever Grantaire had said.

“Ready to go?” Grantaire asked Bossuet. The man jerked his head in reply. “Then let’s go.”

They were three streets away when the first explosion tore the air.

+

“What happened?” Joly took charge of Bahorel as they came through the door, leading him over to a chair while instructing Bossuet to fetch his medical bag. Marius, feeling lightheaded, followed everyone else into the house, letting the sudden volley of questions roll over him.

He watched as Grantaire stormed past him, heading towards the kitchen.

“Jehan!” he barked. “Blades?”

The man in question leapt out of the room, heading up the stairs.

“Grantaire, no.” Enjolras was on his feet, following R into the kitchen. “You’re not going back out.”

“Get the fuck out of my face!” Grantaire was backed up against the counter now, his stance defensive despite his aggressive tone. Marius blanched. He had never heard Grantaire raise his voice to Enjolras. He expected Enjolras to lash out, to shout back. Instead he invaded R’s personal space, reaching forward to cup the back of R’s neck, pulling their heads together.

“No, my R,” Enjolras whispered.

Jehan reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, pausing. He looked at Courf who shook his head, a silent communication passing between them. Jehan put his precious package down on the table and promptly disappeared again.

“Come on,” Courf tugged Marius’s sleeve. “You don’t want to be here for this. Trust me,” he said in a low tone, pulling Marius out of the room. Bossuet followed, along with Joly leading Bahorel.

Marius still felt apprehensive. It had been a hell of an evening. He still couldn’t get the image of that man out of his head. He tried to remember that there hadn’t been a choice, that the guy, whoever he was, had shot Bahorel and had broken Bahorel’s arm. Grantaire had needed to deal with that. 

But it had still been a horrible shock, seeing Grantaire like that. Marius wasn’t stupid. He knew the game they were playing. He had heard the rhetoric. Decisions had to be taken. Sacrifices had to be made. But he had never imagined this.

He thought of all his previous interactions with the man; the easy laughter, the way he liberally draped himself over everyone and quoted extensively from increasingly obscure texts, how he and Marius had sat up one night conversing exclusively in German. The cold detachment on his face as he had slit that man’s throat, as if it was nothing at all; Marius had not recognised his friend at all in that moment.

“Is Enjolras angry with R?” he asked, tentatively. It was hard to read that relationship. Courfeyrac looked distinctly uneasy, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“No,” he answered honestly, directing Marius into his bedroom and shutting the door. Marius sank down on the bed, exhaustion overtaking him.

“Those two are… complicated.” Courfeyrac considered for a moment. “They’ve been together for as long as I’ve known them. It’s a sort of obsessive need of the other. I’m probably not explaining this very well.” Courfeyrac scrubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.

“You mean _together_ together?” Marius clarified. Courf huffed, grinning at him before nodding. Marius wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“But, they don’t seem to get on very well,” he stuttered, somewhat incredulous. He tried to remember if they had ever had a nice conversation. Usually they were snapping or sniping at each other. Or they were at opposite ends of the room. Grantaire spent a lot of time with Jehan, while Enjolras was more likely to be found at Combeferre’s side. Having said that, the few times they had touched, those touches had been extraordinarily intimate.

“They’re like two sides of the same coin,” Courfeyrac tried again. “Enjolras has the ideals, Grantaire has the cynicism. Or two ends of the same magnet – you know how opposites attract?” Marius nodded.

“Enjolras wants to build a whole new world. Grantaire wants to burn it to the ground.”

Marius sat back, arms folded, a frown creasing his features. The idea of Grantaire terrified him at that moment.

“How did they meet?” he asked at last, wishing to break the silence in any way he could. Courfeyrac scrunched up his nose in consideration.

“When Grantaire was seven he was taken to a protest by his mother against the Interim Government. A mounted National Guard slashed him with his sword,” Courfeyrac said in a grave tone. Marius swallowed; that explained the scar.

“He was put in one of the Youth Programmes. Somewhere along the line he met Enjolras, and then Jehan.”

Courf paused, his lips pressed together, looking conflicted.

“Look, don’t tell anyone I told you this, ok?” he bit his lip, an expression of deep uncertainty crossing his features. Marius nodded, leaning forward. 

“Have you heard of Auxxone?”

Marius sat back, a chill running down his spine. Of course he had heard of Auxxone. It was a story, a threat parents used to get their children to behave. _You be good or you’ll end up in Auxxone_.

“It burnt down,” he whispered. Courfeyrac nodded, giving Marius a pointed expression as though he was missing the obvious.

Oh.

“That was -?”

“All I’m saying is, Enjolras and Grantaire have been through a lot together. Enjolras is definitely not angry with R.”

+

Down in the kitchen, Enjolras was still as close to Grantaire as possible without physically merging with him.

“You won’t go out there angry, R. I need you. I need you to be alert and at your best. Can you do that for me?” Enjolras’s voice was soft and inviting. Grantaire let out a shuddering breath.

“We were betrayed, E. You know how I feel about treachery.”

Enjolras silenced him with a kiss, claiming R’s mouth before relaxing, letting the other take control. He felt strong, capable hands slide up his back.

“Tell me who it was, R” Enjolras murmured his gentle command, kissing down Grantaire’s neck while sliding his hands up under Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire smelt of sweat and smoke and something else, something personal and distinct to Grantaire and he craved it, biting down against the skin, enjoying the soft moan the act produced.

“Tell me what you want to do to them.”

Enjolras had great need of Grantaire. He was Grantaire’s and Grantaire was his and it had been that way for ten years now. Grantaire challenged him and frustrated him and completed him, made him whole. 

“It was Claquesous. He sent a couple of lackeys. I should have been quicker –“

“No, my R,” Enjolras pressed a finger to Grantaire’s lower lip. Instantly the other man parted his lips, taking that finger into his mouth and sucking it, pressing his teeth against it firmly without biting too hard.

“Tell me what you’re going to do to Claquesous.”

Enjolras gave him a final kiss before dropping to his knees, reaching up to unbutton Grantaire’s fly. He quickly wrapped his hand round Grantaire’s cock, already half hard. He stroked it before kissing it, teasing the head with his tongue.

“Tell me about the conversation you’re going to have with him,” he instructed one last time before licking a long stripe up Grantaire’s cock, making the other moan.

“I’m going make him think he has a chance. I’ll tie – ah – I’ll tie him to a chair. I’ll cut his clothes off with a blade, let the sting and the blood give him – _fuck Enjolras_ – something to think about.”

Grantaire’s eyes were closed, his hands clutching the side of the counter, holding himself up as Enjolras took him into his mouth, head bobbing as he sucked him off expertly, knowing just which buttons to press. _Bastard_ , Grantaire thought. Enjolras pulled away with a pop.

“When you stop, I stop,” he warned. Grantaire groaned, glaring down at him. Enjolras just smirked, raising a challenging eyebrow. He licked gently at the head of Grantaire’s cock, encouraging the man to continue.

“I’ll cut the fucker – ah, shit – I’ll cut the fucker up. I’ll cut his hair off. I’ll make him beg. Make him –“ he paused as Enjolras deep-throated him, hissing as Enjolras took hold of his hips, pressing fingernails in deep enough to bruise, holding Grantaire in place.

“I’ll make him tell me everything.”

Enjolras was increasing his efforts now and Grantaire was struggling to remain coherent, lost in the pleasure of Enjolras’s mouth. His hips stuttered helplessly against the counter. He felt his guts boil with the threat of his building orgasm.

“Then I’ll press my gun against his head and then he’ll realise. Then he’ll know…” Enjolras hollowed his cheeks, doubling his pace, and really it was sinful how well that man knew how to get Grantaire off, and so quickly too.

“Then he’ll fucking know. And I’ll get to see the light leave his eyes. Enjolras!” he gasped, trying to give a warning, but the fingers at his hips dug in harder, an affirmation of sorts. With a groan, Grantaire spent down Enjolras’s throat, sagging back against the counter. 

Enjolras swallowed it all, pulling off Grantaire with a pleased smirk, reaching up to help R down to join him on the kitchen floor. Breathing hard, they resumed their usual position, forehead against forehead.

“I’ll blow his fucking brains out,” Grantaire gasped. Enjolras pulled him into a bruising kiss. R could taste himself on Enjolras’s tongue and he groaned with want.

“I’ll send what’s left of his shirt to his boss,” he finished, staring Enjolras right in the eyes. Enjolras grinned at him.

“Go to it, my R. Go talk to Claquesous.”

Grantaire rose to his feet, tucking himself back in and doing up his fly. Beside him, Enjolras stood up, wiping his jaw with a satisfied smirk.

“And when you get back, I want you to fuck me.”

Grantaire picked up the knives Jehan had brought down for him. He threw a last grin over his shoulder before heading out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gone into a bit more detail about the start of Enjolras's and Grantaire's relationship in a oneshot side fic - "Bad Beginnings: A Series of Unfortunate Accidents. It didn't fit in this chapter but I just could't leave it out all together.


	5. In Which A Number of Conclusions Are Drawn And A Plan Is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine has an unexpected visitor and everyone meets to come up with a plan to free Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so there are a number of content warnings for this chapter; there are extremely brief mentions of drug use, some allusions to torture including testing and ECT but these are vague, non-specific and on nobody of any importance. I mention them because it is always better to be safe rather than sorry. There's also some mentions of violence. If anyone would like me to tag anything else, please let me know.
> 
> This chapter is also unbeta'd (my Other Half had a quick read through but they really don't count :-p) so please excuse any and all mistakes.

Eponine didn’t like going to work knowing that one of Les Amis was in her apartment. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe that she was a trusted employee; her paranoia had kept her alive and undetected thus far.

Everything needed to carry on as normal while Combeferre came up with a plan. These things didn’t just happen overnight. Part of the reason Les Amis had been so successful was the terrifying combination of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Enjolras had the voice, the ideas and the delivery, Courfeyrac had the heart and soul but it was Combeferre who had the logic. If there was anyone who knew how to plan, it was Combeferre. 

In the mean time she was dedicated to finding out as much information about the facility down at Angers as she could. She went down to the archives and put in a General Information request for anything containing the word “Angers”.

“Something landed on my desk,” she shrugged nonchalantly at the archivist who took her request. “It’s probably nothing but you never know.” The archivist grinned and rolled his eyes, like he knew exactly what she meant. _It’s a bitch when that happens_ , his look seemed to say.

They also had to wait for Feuilly to get back, though whether it would be with or without R, Eponine couldn’t be sure. Grantaire had always been a bit of an elusive character. She had only ever had to bail him out the once, being the point just after the riots. Any number of cases that had landed on her desk over the years could be credited to his “work” and as a result she was very familiar with his modus operandi. He wasn’t a sadist, but he wasn’t a passionless killer either. He killed efficiently. Occasionally a special case cropped up where there was evidence of torture prior to death, but even that was shown to be almost cold and business-like, the marks made were deliberate and calculated.

Only twice had Eponine seen evidence of the bubbling anger within translated onto a corpse. Once had been several years ago, before the Paris Protest. A man in his late fifties had been found dead in his house. He had been tied up, slashed very deliberately across the face and then been left to bleed to death from a number of well-placed cuts to each wrist. The only reason Eponine knew it was one of R’s was because Combeferre had told her. It turned out the man had been a mounted officer in the early days of the Interim Government. He had received special honours after helping to contain a protest that turned violent. The crime was still sitting in the unsolved pile on Eponine’s desk.

The other time was more recent. Another Gendarme. This time Eponine knew exactly who he was and why R had targeted him. It had been six months since she had witnessed the man bragging to his mates, six months since she passed the name to Combeferre. It had been six months of waiting until finally he ended up as a case file on her desk. From the autopsy report it was clear that Grantaire had gone to town on this guy, putting every ounce of his inner pain into making damn sure the man’s last hours were far from pleasant. 

She knew R had carried Jehan’s knives with him since his friend’s death and it seemed a poetic sort of justice that those blades should have been used to end the life of the one that had killed their original owner. Two weeks’ later, Marius had turned up at her apartment.

As various files filtered into her possession, she settled down to make some random notes. The office was its usual hub of steady activity. Nobody rushed anything. There was always someone to interview, always a lead to follow, a clue to investigate. It wasn’t all riots, revolutions and murders. Most of the cases she handled, with the exception of the Marked Assassin Murders, were to do with neighbours informing on each other maliciously. These annoyed her more than anything; didn’t they realise how serious it could be, getting sent to a prison camp? And for what? Some petty argument because the neighbour was playing music too loud at night.

The first three files did not contain anything interesting. There was one theft, one assault and one domestic violence, all of them having taken place in Angers. The fourth file was slightly more interesting. It was a pre-Paris file of a guy who had been arrested for being in possession of an anti-government leaflet. He had received three years and the notes recorded that he had been released after serving eighteen months. What was interesting was a note in the margin of his interview notes.

_Possible Angers_

Eponine wrote it down and moved on. Three hours later she sat alone in the office, her back aching slightly from being hunched over files. She had five more files where “Possible Angers” had been written somewhere on the file. Her stomach grumbled; it was really time to head home. Just as she pulled on her coat, her eye was caught by a familiar word. Three files down, she huffed as she extracted Pontmercy, Marius from the pile. It was an orange file to show that no charges had ever been brought. Thinking that Marius might find it amusing, she threw it onto the pile she planned to take home with her before heading for the door.

Marius looked at the pile of files in consternation as Eponine came through the door. 

“Just some light bedtime reading,” she grinned, chucking them down on to the coffee table before striding over to the kitchen, grabbing a glass out of the cupboard. “Anything happen today?” She looked over to where Marius was standing.

“Your phone rang twice, but I didn’t answer. Your neighbours had a blistering row at about three o’clock. They decided to celebrate the end of that row rather loudly at half past four.” Marius wrinkled his nose and Eponine snorted.

“I translated two documents for Combeferre and read half of the last treatise that Joly gave me but my red pen ran out so I couldn’t proof-read much more until you came home.” Eponine nodded, sipping her water before walking back over to the pile. She pulled out Marius’s file and held it out to him.

“This popped up in my Angers research. Thought you might want to take a look.”

Marius stared at the file before accepting it, sitting down to read its contents. The silence stretched on. Eponine began to cook them some dinner, giving Marius some space.

“Possible Angers,” Marius spoke up after about fifteen minutes of fascinated silence. “What does that mean?”

Eponine shrugged. 

“It’s been in quite a few files. It’s always written on the interview record, in the margin as though an afterthought.” She walked over, looking down at the file, eyes seeking out the neat handwriting.

“What is interesting about that file is the last time I saw it, that writing wasn’t there. Someone wrote that after I returned it to the archive. By that point, as far as the system was concerned, you had already been released.”

It was a puzzle and Eponine didn’t like puzzles. She knew the system backwards, knew how much they liked rules. Something about this was different. It was almost outside the system.

Suddenly her head shot up and she tensed all over. She had a very simple chime system set up for whenever anyone came up the final flight of stairs to her floor. She already knew that everyone supposed to be on the fourth floor was already in, so whoever was climbing the stairs now was not a resident.

Of course, it could be a false alarm. It could be someone visiting the neighbours. Except that Eponine had selected her neighbours very carefully, though they couldn’t possibly know it. The old boy at the end had no family to speak of. His carer came once in the morning to issue his meds and then it was just him for the rest of the day until four o’clock when he went to buy his dinner. Then there were the neighbours that Marius had heard earlier. They were childless and argued frequently but in the end, they only had each other. She liked to play bingo and he enjoyed going to the pub but neither kept late hours due to the fact they both worked the early shift.

“Bedroom. Now. Wardrobe. Not a fucking sound,” she hissed, grabbing Marius up from the couch. Her eyes swept the apartment for any sign that there was more than one person in the room. Marius was a good house guest; there was no sign of him anywhere in the main living area right now.

Eponine didn’t need to check her boot to know that her knife was there, as well as the soft weight of her gun in its holster under her left arm. She positioned herself flat against the wall before looking through the peephole in the door. Her heart dropped; it was one of the Senior Directors.

Eponine was a Level 3 which meant she enjoyed a fair amount of freedom in her job, but she answered to the Directors and they, in turn, to the Senior Directors. The Reims branch had three Senior Directors and Eponine had only ever met one of them once before, which was when she had first been assigned the Marked Assassin case. She had been pulled into a meeting along with three others and it had been a nerve-wracking episode. The SDs had a way of looking at you as though they could read your every thought. It was said they could smell guilt on a person.

The Senior Director outside her door was not the same one she had seen back then, but she appeared to be alone. Eponine had never felt so trapped in all her life. Swallowing slightly, she stood back. It would be absolute suicide to attack a Senior Director. Besides, she didn’t know what the woman wanted. She waited for the inevitable knock before opening the door.

“Eponine, good to see you, my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour,” the SD swept in, sounding not at all apologetic. She spoke swiftly and efficiently in the manner of all Directors, senior or otherwise, as though time was of the essence and that even this conversation was a waste of their valuable minutes.

“I understand you’ve been researching ‘Angers’,” the SD cut straight to the point, standing next to the coffee table and the pile of files Eponine had brought home. Eponine’s mind was working fast. She must have touched on something huge for a SD to get so involved, but they obviously weren’t sure of her motivations. Her enquiries had been open and through the proper channels and as far as anyone knew, Eponine wasn’t looking at anything specific with regards to that town. 

“Yes, it’s for the Marked Assassin case,” she replied. That, at least, was indirectly true; if Enjolras was in Angers then you could bet your last penny that R would kill an awful lot of people to be in Angers too. It was true enough for her to give off the impression of telling the complete truth. She had been caught unprepared and she was painfully aware of her body language. That was the point of the exercise of course; they wanted to see a genuine reaction from her rather than give her a chance to prepare herself.

The Senior Director remained expressionless, but Eponine detected a slight twitch in the shoulders; evidently Eponine’s answer had been unexpected.

“We got a lead that he may have been in the area so I did a standard archive sweep,” she maintained level eye contact with the SD, waiting for her next move. 

“And what was it about these files that so attracted you?” the SD reached down, picking Marius’s open file up from the coffee table.

“They’re a random selection from the pile delivered to my office today. So far I haven’t seen anything other than scribbled observations in margins. Nothing pertinent to my case.”

Eponine chose her words carefully. She sensed that she was on extremely dangerous ground here but so far the odds were in her favour. They were trying to scare her, invading her home, asking her vague questions, presumably in the hope of tripping an answer out of her. So far her answers had all been good. The SD snapped the folder shut.

“You will submit your report relating to the Marked Assassin and his link to Angers directly to me,” she instructed. Eponine nodded her agreement and then the woman was gone, leaving only chills in her wake. Eponine didn’t move, counting to one hundred in her head. She hoped Marius had the good sense to stay the fuck where he was. Just because the SD had left, didn’t mean she was safe. What she did next could seal her fate.

She tried to think what she would do if there wasn’t someone hiding in her bedroom, if she didn’t desperately want to phone Combeferre and pour out the whole story. She wouldn’t be able to get a message to him until tomorrow morning at the earliest. She didn’t doubt for a moment that her flat was being watched and her phone records were probably already on somebody’s desk. Mercifully it just looked like she ordered pizza a lot; nothing unusual about that.

She crossed the room to the kitchen and started to heat up some water on the stove, counting to one hundred in her head again to calm her heart beat. She had never been so close to danger in all her years in this game. She continued cooking the dinner, allowing ten minutes to pass before entering the bedroom. She found Marius crouched in the bottom of her wardrobe, looking pale but determined.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but reckon you could stay in here for me tomorrow? I mean literally in this wardrobe.” She murmured, not yet trusting herself to speak too loudly. Marius nodded.

“How bad is it?” he whispered, as if the danger was still in the next room. 

“Ten,” Eponine’s voice was flat, her jaw set. Marius’s eyes widened. It was as bad as it could get.

The next morning she popped into the coffee shop across the road from her apartment. She smiled at the barista, ordered her usual latte, counting her coins out on to the counter before leaving immediately. Everything about her actions showed that she passed no hidden notes, made no special remarks or eye contact. She threw her empty cup into the general recycling bin at work, knowing full well some poor sod would have to go over it, looking for clues that weren’t there.

What they couldn’t possibly know (or, at least Eponine banked on nobody suspecting) was that her very act of doing that; of ordering a latte, counting out the change and just leaving as though it was what she did every day was a massive red flag to the owner of the shop, and that he would alert Combeferre to the fact that Eponine did not feel safe. 

Eponine continued to work on the files sent up from the Archive, going through each one, making notes, ignoring everything else going on in the office. Occasionally she got up to make a hot drink, chatting idly with her coworkers in the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil, before returning once again.

She spent a week on the report, coming to the conclusion that there was no formal link between Angers and the Marked Assassin other than he might possible have passed through the area on his way to commit another murder. It was certainly nothing that could be drawn from the paperwork. She spent a good portion of that time putting together a convincing source that would have kick-started the enquiries in the first place. A master at forging paperwork, it was relatively easy to replicate a copy of a Lead Document. She made sure to use paper from a different source than the sheets her report was written on. Then went to the trouble of using a pen belonging to one of the guys on the third floor where the Lead Document would have originated from.

She was glad to be able to throw herself so thoroughly into something she was good at as it took her attention away from the fact that it felt as though the whole world was watching her. She had decided the best thing to do was to behave as though she had no idea she was being watched. To be looking out for someone watching her would be showing a little too much of her hand. If she behaved as though she expected her boss to trust her, then hopefully it would keep them focused on the immediate problem rather than the whole massive mountain of problems Eponine had to hide on a daily basis. Right now, they thought someone was on the verge of discovering their secret. What they didn’t know, and what Eponine had no intention of them ever finding out, was just how close they had come to discovering hers.

When the report was done, she immediately took it up to the tenth floor. She allowed some of her nervousness to show, consciously aware of how she should present herself; to be either too nervous or not nervous enough would be suspicious. The Senior Director accepted the report and dismissed her without a second glance. Eponine returned to her floor and moved on to the next Lead Document on her desk; some submission from a concerned parent about their child’s teacher. It was a welcome distraction, something Eponine could just immerse herself in that had nothing at all whatsoever to do with Angers or killings or anything else. She went home at five o’clock along with everyone else.

Marius had been as good as his word. It was far too dangerous to try to smuggle him out of her flat. He spent the days sitting in the bottom of Eponine’s wardrobe which couldn’t be at all comfortable. He mostly read or slept. He never used the bathroom unless Eponine was home, and they both ate from the same plate and drank from the same glass just in case they had any further unexpected visits and needed to hide him at short notice. But they couldn’t go on like this.

She wondered whether Feuilly was back yet, whether he had managed to find R or not. She desperately wanted to talk to Combeferre, to tell him that they must be on to something with Angers, given everything that had happened. But it was still too dangerous to try to reach out.

In any event, she didn’t need to try to contact Combeferre. On the Friday after submitting her report, she popped into the coffee shop across the road for her morning latte. She was alone at the counter when she ordered, just three other people in the shop with her. The owner smiled at her.

“One skinny vanilla latte?” he enquired. She gave him a tired smile, nodding. He reached over to a the wall behind the coffee machine, taking a key off the wall

“Sure, no problem, but make sure you lock up afterwards ok?” he spoke as though she had asked him a question. Eponine froze for a moment, automatically reaching for the key.

“Cheers,” she forced herself to answer, to carry on the charade, “will do!” Then she turned and walked towards the bathroom. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. At first glance, the little bathroom was empty, but she knew better. She made sure the door was relocked so that they wouldn’t be disturbed and then she coughed.

She wasn’t stupid enough to call out his name. He would know it was her anyway. Combeferre stepped out of the cubical. 

At first they hugged, gripping each other like they were too terrified to let go. Eventually though, Combeferre pulled back, eyes boring into her as though trying to pick through her mind.

“I’ve been expecting you to call code nine. What the hell is going on?” he whispered. They had about two minutes so Eponine spoke fast.

“I had an unexpected visit from an SD,” she explained. Combeferre frowned.

“Bossuet said you were being followed but not for the past two days,” Eponine sighed, glad that her hunch had been right and feeling unbelievably grateful that Les Amis had been keeping an eye on her as well.

“The flat?”

“No. We watched it for three days and there was no sign of anyone, they were just following you.” Eponine nodded at Combeferre’s words. They didn’t suspect Marius was in her flat. That was good.

“Feuilly got back late last night. R is with him.” Combeferre glanced at the door like he expected it to burst open any minute. They were out of time. If Eponine spent any longer in here, people might begin to notice.

“Get Marius out while I’m at work,” she instructed. “Just in case they are still watching me. Then sort out a meet at the backroom of the Musain. I’ll come tonight.”

She reached up to press a kiss to his cheek, hugging him one last time.

“I’ll see you later.”

She splashed her hands with water, barely drying them on a paper towel, before unlocking the door and moving out into the reality of the coffee shop. There were two other people being served at the till and her latte was waiting for her on the counter.

“Thanks,” she called out, placing the key back on the side and collecting her coffee.

“No worries,” the owner didn’t even glance at her as he picked up the key and returned it to its hook on the wall. Combeferre would have already have exited through the air vent in the ceiling, was probably three streets away by now. Eponine fixed her face and took herself to work, determined to have the most boring day possible.

+

Eponine was glad to find her flat empty when she got home that evening. She took a quick shower before dressing up as though going out. In her privileged position, she enjoyed a later Curfew on Friday nights and so was able to take advantage of the bars and nightclubs along with other government members and staff.

The Musain had been their preferred meeting place for many years, mostly because of the optical illusion of the building. If you didn’t look too closely, it appeared that the Musain couldn’t possibly have a back room; that all the space was accounted for. As far as she was aware, it had never been discovered that Les Amis used the property almost exclusively for three years.

It was now a popular place for drinks and Eponine couldn’t help but think how ironic it was that so many members of the government and its associated staff chose to go there to celebrate the arrival of the weekend.

She entered the main bar, ordering a glass of wine and choosing to sit alone for a while, reading a book and sipping her drink. She surreptitiously glanced around the bar. It was still quite early and most people were in couples, apparently lost in the privacy of each other’s company. Eponine finished her drink before heading to the corridor which led to the patio. Half way along the corridor hung a tapestry. Ensuring that she was alone, she pushed it aside, finding the panel in the woodwork and pushing open the hidden door. She moved quickly up the narrow flight of stairs to the backroom, unable to keep the smile from her face as she entered.

Everyone was there. For a moment it was like old times.

Combeferre was sitting at the front, and by his side was Courfeyrac who had evidently returned from Ireland. His face was pale and strained but there was something else, some undercurrent of determination. 

Marius sat just in front, next to Joly and Bossuet. All three turned as she came in, getting to their feet to greet her. Feuilly and Grantaire were sitting side by side just behind the others, smoking. Feuilly grinned at her, holding out his hand for her to shake. Grantaire jerked his head in acknowledgement just as Combeferre cleared his throat.

“Right,” he started, and instantly everyone’s attention went to the front of the room. Eponine pulled up a chair and sat next to Feuilly.

“What do we know about Angers?” Combeferre looked to Eponine first, but before she could open her mouth, Feuilly spoke up.

“We’ve seen it,” Feuilly looked round the room. “R and I decided to take a look on our way back here.”

Everyone listened as Feuilly spoke about the apparently typical government institution, all barbed wire and whitewash paint set about three miles outside the main town. Grantaire remained silent, smoking in the corner. Eponine wondered how hard it had been for Feuilly to convince the guy to come back here, to walk away from the building where Enjolras was being held.

“The local undertaker was very helpful. Since that facility was set up, the number of anonymous bodies pulled out of the river has trebled. All of the victims were dead before they hit the water. Some of them have had organs or limbs removed, or had evidence of infection, though at the request of the local sheriff none of these deaths were investigated. They are marked as suicides and interred in a mass grave.”

There was silence as everyone processed that information. Feuilly reached into his bag and drew out papers which he passed over to Joly.

“The most recent one I was able to get a copy of the autopsy report. It’s not very detailed…” Joly accepted the papers and started to flick through.

“It’s a quiet place. Minimal staff manning the gate, and it’s secluded. No one in the town likes to talk about it. General impression is that it’s more of a laboratory than a hospital. No one from the town is employed there.”

Combeferre was jotting notes, a frown decorating his features.

“Joly?”

“Male, early thirties. No stomach contents. Burn marks on temples indicative of ECT without jelly, multiple intravenous track marks, but body was in general good health, not consistent with regular drug abuse. Lungs were empty. Cause of death unknown.” Joly closed the file, twisting his mouth. “Could be a lab rat?”

“The testing of humans, though.” Bossuet shuddered. “I know we shouldn’t be shocked but I’m surprised no one has come forward. You said they were picking up bodies regularly. Surely people would notice?”

“Maybe they were tested post-mortem?” Eponine spoke up. “Once you’re dead your body belong to the… oh.” She closed her eyes, sudden realisation dawning upon her.

“Once you’re dead your body belongs to the State.” She rubbed her jaw with her hand, horrified at the implications. 

“Enjolras’s death certificate was issued. But he’s still alive. You said it yourself, Boss, what if there are others?”

“Fuck,” Feuilly swore quietly. 

“I had a whole desk full of files with notes in margins. Someone went through them looking for possible candidates. What if I’m not the only person making people disappear?” Eponine thought she might be sick. “What if the only reason I’ve been getting away with it for so long is that it has been assumed I’m making you disappear for the right reasons? For government reasons…”

She thought of every time she had bailed one of the guys out of prison on a minor charge. Had falsified the paperwork, created a fake paper trail, a new identity. She thought she was just lucky. Maybe she was luckier than she ever imagined. She had never been caught out because what she was doing was not suspicious.

“We need to get Enjolras out of there,” Courfeyrac spoke up. He was completely green and Eponine agreed with him whole-heartedly.

“We need to do more than that, we need to blow this whole thing open,” Combeferre had never looked so serious. “We need to make this huge, make sure not just everyone in France knows about it, but in the wider world too.”

There was a general murmur of agreement. The other countries in the former European Union mostly left France alone, respecting her autonomy and turning a blind eye to her human rights abuses on the general basis that sacrifices had to be made in the name of security. It was just the way the new world worked now. But this was a game changer and everyone knew it.

“There’s no way anyone is going in there until we know more about the layout,” Grantaire spoke up now. Recon was his forte. 

“With all the trees it was impossible to take a good look, but there were multiple buildings. We don’t even know how many people are in there, which building Enjolras is in. We need staff numbers, building spec. We’re only going to get one shot at this and we have to do it right.”

A heated discussion soon broke out about the logistics of that between Bossuet and Feuilly; the former wanting to just blow a big hole in it, send the staff scattering and let the prisoner’s take advantage of the chaos and hopefully they would pick Enjolras up, leave enough clues that it was obvious they were behind it. Feuilly, however, agreed with R. They needed more data before they could even begin to think of going in, but that it wasn’t safe to use usual recon methods.

“Why don’t you send me in?” Marius spoke up, bringing the room back to silence. “You said they were considering me as a candidate. So, work me into the system. I can get an idea of the layout of the place. Then when you break in with your bells and whistles I’ll be on site to direct you. I might even locate Enjolras for you?”

“You’re out of your mind,” Eponine stated flatly.

“You get people out of the system, surely you can manipulate your way back in?” Marius gazed at her levelly but she shook her head.

“You don’t know what you’re asking. Being arrested in Tours is nothing compared to what might happen to you in that place.” She looked around the room at the others for support but Combeferre was rubbing his nose thoughtfully. Feuilly had his eyebrows raised at Grantaire who was running his thumb along his lower lip.

“This requires a delicate touch,” Grantaire’s voice was dark. “We can’t risk alerting them to our activities in case they move Enjolras to some other nameless location.”

“I understand that,” Marius agreed, still looking defiant. Grantaire looked to Combeferre.

“Well, oh faithful Guide, what do you think?” he raised a challenging eyebrow and Eponine almost smiled. She hadn’t heard Grantaire talk like that in years. It was so old and yet so familiar it practically hurt to hear it, an echo of happier, more innocent times.

“Twenty-four hours. If we can get Marius transferred to Angers he will be inside for no more than twenty-four hours. At the same time, Ep, I want you to pull out completely from your job, full code nine. We’ll pack up your apartment,” Eponine opened her mouth to object but he spoke over her, ploughing on with his plan.

“You should commission a government vehicle and go on a field trip to Angers. Make up some excuse that one of the residents has appeared on an interview list. No, on second thoughts, ask for a cross-section of patients. Make sure Enjolras is one of many. If they agree, you can interview him and then he’ll know that we’re coming for him, even if he doesn’t meet up with Marius. He’ll put himself in a position to be found.” 

Courfeyrac was writing all this down in his famous shorthand while Combeferre carried on, turning his attention to Bossuet.

“Put together a number of devices for any number of scenarios, but the general idea is to go as big as possible. How quickly can you get this together?”

“Forty-eight hours. I have a considerable stockpile and if Feuilly is prepared to help -?” he looked over to his friend who nodded. “Then yeah. Forty-eight hours.”

“Monday, then. We’ll start working Marius into the system on Monday. If all goes well, Enjolras will be back with us by Wednesday morning.”

Everyone looked round. Joly looked pensive, Bossuet was calculating in his head. Feuilly’s face was grim, Grantaire’s unreadable. Courfeyrac looked the most worried, shooting anxious glances at Marius who remained impassive yet determined. 

Eponine looked over to Combeferre who was obviously running down a checklist inside his head. She felt an old familiar energy. It hadn’t been like this in years. Les Amis were planning something. The last two years had been damage control, had been a limping shadow of former glories as they attempted to cope with the post-Paris reality. Now, this felt like old times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been leaving me such lovely comments! Your feedback is hugely appreciated as it keeps me on the right track :)
> 
> Just to make it clear, the first guy R got to was the one who slashed him when he was a kid. The second one was (rather more obviously) Jehan's killer.
> 
> If anyone has any questions, please drop into my ask box - I'm Lynchy8 on tumblr.


	6. In Which The Game Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> So, tw for discussions of rape, rape culture and victim blaming. Also, some of the language used later is associated with dub-con/non-con. It isn't either of those, the smut is enthusiastically consented to, however I tag it anyway because it's safer to do so than not.
> 
> Thanks to Sarah for reading this and dragging me to the finish line.

Marius lived in the little house in Reims for three years and in that time he had a front row seat from which to watch the evolution of Les Amis. In that time he watched them grow from a small group of like-minded people into an organised force to be reckoned with.

They spread their message in two ways; peacefully and not-so-peacefully. Enjolras had big ideas; more than that, he had vision. When he spoke he sometimes appeared to stare over your shoulder at the back wall. But he wasn’t staring at the wall, he was staring through it to the horizon, as though to physically watch the future advance upon them.

It was dangerous to be an Idealist in France. Society had never been more conservative. The emphasis was on simpler times, when life was not complicated or hampered by the selfish desires and culturally crippling effects of technology. To go against this was to destroy. To destroy was terrorism.

The group had been together in one form or another for about five years before Marius came along. They never stayed in one place too long, moving from town to town. There were a few places, such as Combeferre’s apartment in Tours, the house in Reims, an apartment in Paris which had once belonged to Jehan’s grandmother, and a house down in the Loire Valley, which all of them used as safe houses; about as close to a home as you could get.

They were adept at organising small gatherings, getting interested people together for short meetings of fifteen minutes or so. These were usually disguised as lectures on a variety of more state-sanctioned topics such as how to make your coupons go further, or tips on recycling or making new from old. These were useful skills in themselves and attracted a following from which either Courfeyrac or Joly, who were both empathic people good at conveying the appearance of respectability, would easily be able to identify people who would be sympathetic to their cause.

When they met amongst themselves they discussed ways to spread their message effectively. Marius preferred to listen rather than to speak at these meetings, far too terrified of saying the wrong thing and risking a cutting remark from Combeferre or a glare of disapproval from Enjolras. He watched the dynamic of the group, learning how each person played their role.

Feuilly and Bahorel were barometers, sensing the swirling atmosphere that was the vox populi. Bahorel seemed to have a lot of contacts and acted as a go-between, passing on messages of support and suggestions of action from group to group. Marius supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that there was more than one protest group existing in the French underworld. Bahorel also worked closely with Jehan and Grantaire, sometimes helping out with crowd control whenever they went on a job or reconnaissance.

For the working classes, there was Feuilly. He was quite a few years older than the others. He seemed to have worked at some point or other in every sort of field and, as such, had a number of useful contacts in the guilds. He seemed to be permanently relaxed despite his heavy work load. Marius loved to watch him work on something with his hands, some item or other that one of the others brought for him, just to see him coax it into life with a screwdriver or some other tool, cigarette hanging thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth.

Because of their various commitments, Bahorel and Feuilly weren’t always able to attend every meeting and their absence was heavily felt. Bahorel had a deep laugh that could echo throughout a building and it was impossible for a room to be uncomfortably silent if Feuilly was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and a look of amusement on his face.

Joly was keen-minded and often worked with Combeferre on the more logical or scientific side of things. He had been training to be a doctor when the government closed the faculty after a member of staff had insulted one of the senior members of the High Council. Joly had only been three months from qualifying and yet his career was over before it began. The association with a radical university faculty was enough to tarnish you for life and no other place would take him. Marius had thought it ridiculously unfair but Joly remained quite stoic about it.

“I now have both the skills and the time to be really useful here,” he reasoned, before squeezing Bossuet’s hand.

Marius found Bossuet’s talents with explosives to be fascinating. When he was on a job, there was no one more focused or precise. However, when it came to functioning in everyday life, Bossuet was uncommonly unlucky. He was particularly adept at breaking things that should be unbreakable, something that Bahorel argued was actually a good skill to have.

It was Bossuet’s unluckiness several years before that had found him with the barrel of Grantaire’s gun pressed against his temple after he accidentally stumbled upon the man mid-job. They joked about it now, Grantaire clapping a blushing Bossuet on the back while Joly shook his head in amused exasperation but Marius couldn’t imagine it being that funny at the time. Marius was sure that if his first encounter with Grantaire had involved a firearm he would have been far too terrified to stay in the same room as him, much less form such a tight bond of friendship as Grantaire seemed to share with Bossuet and Joly.

Courfeyrac, Marius had found out quite early, also had a flair for pyrotechnics. He had been thrown out of his law college for setting fire to one of his set texts that he particularly disagreed with. He had already been firm friends with Combeferre and they remained in touch. He had no particular need of a job as he lived off a moderate income from his parents who didn’t rightly care what he did as long as they didn’t hear about it. 

“They essentially paid for me to go away,” he said to Marius quite cheerfully. Marius hadn’t known what to say to that.

Combeferre was a complete enigma. Marius didn’t know what to think of him. He was simultaneously terrified of and drawn to the quietest yet paradoxically most outspoken member of the group. It was obvious everyone adored him, valued his opinion and desperately craved some small words of praise from him which were well earned when they were bestowed. Combeferre gave Enjolras direction, steadied his temperament, took his ideas and fashioned them into something useful. They were often to be found with their heads together, usually with Courfeyrac helping with the presentation side of things. They worked well together and Marius could see how with that sort of organisation and dedication, Les Amis could go far.

They made their presence known in other ways. In addition to Joly and Bossuet’s radio broadcasts, Enjolras wrote out manifestos that would be pasted to walls of public buildings, often in places that were hard to reach so that they would be read by a number of people before eventually being removed by local authorities. Gradually, Les Amis graffiti began to appear, much to everyone’s delight, as the message spread across France. Change could be a good thing, you didn’t have to fear your future.

There were other, subtler, but significantly more violent ways of getting attention. Marius knew that the others played down this side of Les Amis. There were various “demolition projects” as they were affectionately known. Targets were selected, usually a government building, or perhaps a factory or warehouse of a company that was closely associated with the Interim Government. They always chose places that would cause maximum disruption to the State and the System whilst at the same time minimising any negative effects on the wider population. They also endeavoured to keep the body count of these projects at zero. It was the building that was the target, the symbol it represented, not the people.

Having said that, sometimes a body was the best way to make a point.

Of course Marius had noticed how Grantaire came and went, usually with Jehan or sometimes with Bahorel as well. Usually he would be back in a few days. Occasionally it took longer. Enjolras was usually unbearable to be around on these occasions, and when Grantaire returned it was better to be out of the house for a few hours.

He had been with Les Amis for just over a year the first time he really became aware of what it was that Grantaire did during these absences. Prior to that, he thought the man was only there for Enjolras or for crowd and perimeter control with Bahorel. Apart from being frighteningly intelligent, and being quite popular with the others, Grantaire didn’t seem to really be on the same mind-set. He was derisive of change, sceptical of their wider efforts to bring it around and whenever Enjolras spoke of building a new world, R would turn to Jehan with a smirk and say just loud enough for the room to hear “just so long as he lets me burn it down first!”

On this occasion, a report had appeared in the news about a prominent businessman in La Rochelle, a party member who was well known on the media circuits as a powerful and fearless bully. He had been accused of the rape of a student, something for which, due to his early guilty plea and probably a sizeable donation to the Interim Government, he wouldn’t be serving prison time. 

He was everything Enjolras hated; rich, powerful and apparently above the law. He wasn’t even compelled to resign from his post. Various unsavoury rumours had been circulated about the girl in question with regards to her sobriety, her character and her choice of clothing when the offence was committed. Enjolras’s face was like thunder as he read the report.

“Enjolras won’t let this pass,” Courfeyrac spoke in a low tone to Combeferre who nodded once to show that he’d heard. Marius desperately wanted to ask Courfeyrac what he meant but he didn’t want to interrupt.

“There are two lists,” Courfeyrac told Marius gravely as they watched Enjolras rise from his seat, heading across the room to where Grantaire sat with Jehan. “People Enjolras wants to speak to, and people Enjolras wants Grantaire to speak to.”

Marius already knew that Grantaire did whatever Enjolras asked of him, although not usually without some smart comment or other. But now he rose in silence, his face fixed and hard. Marius was reminded of that time in the warehouse and he shivered. Jehan followed him out.

Courfeyrac told him it shouldn’t be a hard job. Two, maybe three weeks at most. Enough time for travelling, recon, making a plan. Jehan and R knew what they were doing. 

When the target was still alive after four weeks, a tense silence descended over the house in Reims even though there were more people coming and going than normal. Bahorel usually only stopped by once a week or so, but now he appeared every evening. Feuilly had stayed for the whole weekend, having quiet conversations with Combeferre, leaving on Sunday with promises to return the following Friday. 

Marius spent a lot of his time out and about with Courfeyrac, running errands and doing chores. This had the double effect of keeping his mind away from La Rochelle and his presence out from under Enjolras’s feet. If Enjolras shouted or slammed the occasional door it would have been understandable. Instead he was a ball of cold, silent energy, carrying on with his work as though Grantaire and Jehan were not missing in the field.

Then Marius was shaken awake in the middle of the night by Courfeyrac, startling him from a confusing dream.

“Jehan is back,” Courfeyrac whispered, his voice low and urgent. Marius sat up, instantly awake. From downstairs he could hear Combeferre’s commanding tone interspersed with Jehan’s lighter tenor.

“I’m telling you I’ve no idea,” he heard Jehan’s frustrated words as he tiptoed down the stairs. “He was supposed to meet me after a standard initial recon and he never showed. I stayed there for a week longer than I should have done, but heard nothing and the target remains so I don’t know.”

Marius missed Combeferre’s next words as Courfeyrac pushed past him, anxious to join in the meeting.

“I’ll travel to Paris tomorrow,” Combeferre moved as though to rest a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, but the man stepped away from him, glaring.

“We don’t need anyone else in the field,” Enjolras spoke through gritted teeth. Combeferre remained unmoved.

“If they’d caught R it would have been all over the news,” Combeferre replied in his reasonable tone.

“Unless they haven’t made the connection,” Jehan added. Combeferre nodded in acknowledgement but added no further comment.

“If that is the case, if he has been picked up but they don’t know who he is, then that’s even better, surely?” Courfeyrac spoke up. Marius couldn’t take his eyes off Enjolras. The man was very still, eyes almost black.

“If he’s been picked up, you’ll be able to get him out, like you did with me?” he ventured. Enjolras’s gaze swept over him and for a moment Marius regretted opening his mouth, but then he saw Enjolras’s shoulders relax.

“Yes,” the word came out far quieter and far gentler than Marius expected. “Yes, you’re right.” Enjolras turned back to Combeferre. “You should go to Paris, see what you can find out.”

It was another three days before there was any further news. Enjolras locked himself away in his room. Courfeyrac endeavoured to keep him fed and watered, following Combeferre’s final request before leaving for Paris. Jehan hadn’t stuck around and Bahorel and Feuilly had kept away, leaving just Courfeyrac and Marius to keep things running in Combeferre’s absence.

But when news did come it was a most unexpected source.

“Enjolras, he’s alive!” Marius heard the front door bang and Courfeyrac’s hurried footsteps up the stairs. He sprinted onto the landing where Enjolras was already reaching for the paper in Courfeyrac’s hands.

“It’s all over the front pages. Mattieu Bouchard was found murdered late last night, a single gunshot wound to the head. It’s got R written all over it.” Courfeyrac looked over to Marius, eyes bright as Enjolras devoured the new article.

“It doesn’t give any specific details, nothing explicit to Grantaire’s hallmarks,” Enjolras muttered, voice distracted. “It could be the work of another group.” Marius didn’t think he’d ever heard their chief say something so negative.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac removed the paper forcibly from his friend’s hands. “It’s been weeks. If another group was going to make a move against Bouchard they’d have done it already.”

Courfeyrac thrust the crumpled newspaper at Marius who started reading down the article on the front page. Its tone was very sympathetic to the recently deceased, decrying his brutal murder, commending his work in society and resolutely ignoring his recent conviction for rape.

“Now, I’ve no idea what the fuck Grantaire has been up to,” Courfeyrac continued. “I’ve no doubt you’ll bleed that information out of him when he gets back,” Courfeyrac was staring intently at Enjolras who eventually nodded stiffly. “But the point is that he IS coming back.”

The rest of the day was spent getting the house ready for the inevitable house invasion that evening. Sure enough, by Curfew that evening the house was full of people. To Marius’s surprise, Eponine had come back from Paris with Combeferre and was sitting in a corner with Jehan talking about all the horrible things they were going to do to Grantaire when he got back.

No one slept much that night, not that they expected Grantaire to waltz through the doors any time soon. It was over 600km to Reims from La Rochelle, and R was likely to take a roundabout route. All the same, there was a strange comfort to be found with everyone together. The following day was more muted than the night before. People were tired and stiff from sleeping in chairs or on the floor. Marius went out with Courfeyrac to get more supplies to keep ten mouths fed.

Eponine cornered Marius in the afternoon. He hadn’t seen her since his brief encounter with the Parisian detention system. She hadn’t changed at all which was strangely comforting as he felt completely different.

“How are you finding it?” she enquired, shooting him a warm smile which he shyly returned. “Living with those three lesser-known dwarves, Angry, Intense and Hyperactive Nightmare?”

Marius snorted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of them were loitering anywhere nearby.

“It’s good, actually,” he replied. Understatement. Living in Reims was just about the best thing that had ever happened to Marius. Ok, he missed college and his old friends but now he felt useful and involved. All three had made him feel welcome, despite the seemingly never-ending rotation of meetings, tasks, plans and everything else that came with being part of Les Amis. 

Eponine smiled at him warmly.

“You certainly seem to have settled in, found a little place for yourself here. Combeferre was telling me you make yourself useful. Which is a compliment, by the way,” she added hastily, but Marius nodded. He understood. Coming from Combeferre that was about the highest compliment you could get.

The whole room suddenly fell silent at the sound of someone coming through the front door. There was a shuffling in the hallway and then Grantaire was there, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

He looked thinner, or maybe that was Marius’s imagination. Maybe he expected Grantaire to look different, to carry some sign of his absence, some mark to illustrate the time that had passed, all that stress and that worry. 

“Hi,” Grantaire broke the silence, tugging a hand through his hair in an almost nervous fashion as he faced the roomful of friends.

“You complete bastard!” Jehan was up on his feet, marching over to Grantaire who didn’t even flinch, or try to defend himself as Jehan slapped him hard across the face.

“Where the fuck were you, you didn’t meet me you complete _arse_!” Marius watched along with the rest of the room as Jehan took out his frustration on the taller man.

“Jehan, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Grantaire murmured, catching the young man’s flailing wrists and holding him close. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, dropping a kiss to Jehan’s forehead. He muttered something in Jehan’s ear that no one else was privy to. His friend looked up at him, their usually expressive face suddenly like stone. Jehan nodded once before stepping back.

“Jehan’s right, where were you?” Enjolras was standing, arms folded. Beside him, Marius heard Eponine swear quietly under her breath. This was going to be loud.

“Can we debrief later, I’m fucking knackered,” Grantaire chucked his bag down, deliberately casual, heading towards the kitchen, his long legs making quick work of it. 

“I think that’s entirely irrelevant considering you’ve been missing for nearly six weeks,” Enjolras followed him, nostrils flaring.

“There was a fuck up with the initial recon. I picked up a problem and had to think on my feet. By the time the problem was solved it was too late to liaise with Jehan.” Grantaire sounded bored by the whole conversation, and from the living room they could hear him rifling through cupboards, presumably in search of food.

“When things go wrong there are procedures –” Nine heads craned to try to catch a glimpse of the chaos in the kitchen. Courf caught Joly’s eye. There were an awful lot of things in the kitchen; breakable things, things that could be easily thrown, things that were sharp.

“What does it fucking matter as long as your precious point got made?” Grantaire snarled. “You asked me to do a job. It went to shit, I had to make a decision. Jehan followed your procedures and he’s fine. I followed my own fucking procedures. I’m also fine and the job got done so what is your. Fucking. Problem. Enjolras?” Grantaire spat the last three words, slamming the cupboard door shut.

“My problem is that you think you can just disappear off the face of the planet and think it doesn’t fucking matter!” Enjolras bellowed. That was it; like some universal signal, the sound of their leader reduced to swearing meant that everyone instantly leapt to their feet, heading for the exit. Just as Marius went to shut the front door he winced as something made of glass shattered against the floor.

+

Enjolras was furious. How dare, how _dare_ Grantaire just stroll in as though everything was fine? The last few weeks had been hellish. He didn’t like Grantaire going so far for a job in the first place. Having Jehan come back alone had been everything his worst nightmares were made of.

“Tell me about the problem,” he demanded, blocking the doorway, glaring ferociously. Grantaire looked distinctly unimpressed.

“It got solved, it doesn’t matter –” Grantaire began, before Enjolras picked up an empty tumbler off the kitchen side and threw it at the floor. It fractured in all directions, small fragments skittering across the linoleum. Grantaire folded his arms and glared at the man in front of him. 

“Well that is certainly going to induce me to talk to you about the worst fucking three weeks of my life, Enjolras. Very mature I must say,” Grantaire leant against the counter, aggressively blasé, but there was a crack in the armour now. Enjolras ploughed on.

“In my opinion the glass doesn’t matter so why do you care whether it’s whole on the kitchen counter or in pieces across the kitchen floor?” Enjolras’s voice was calm now, his volume right down. He felt focused and more in control than he had done in a month.

“Because Joly will have an absolute fucking fit about his floor,” Grantaire’s voice rose slightly, gesturing at the mess. Enjolras raised his eyebrows

“And you don’t think I wasn’t having an absolute fit wondering where you were? What had happened to you?”

“That was a shit metaphor Enjolras –” Enjolras stepped across the kitchen, boots crunching across the glass on the floor, seizing Grantaire and pulling him in because he couldn’t go another second being in the same room and not kiss the frustrating fucking arsehole in front of him.

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras gasped, biting down hard on Grantaire’s lower lip, dragging his fingers down his back. Then it was all hands and mouths and biting down, gasping and pushing. Fingers in hair, teeth on skin. Enjolras groaned as Grantaire pushed him backward, his hips slamming against the counter. Enjolras retaliated, spinning them round, ripping at Grantaire’s shirt, buttons pinging in all directions. Something toppled off the side, crashing across the floor, ignored completely by the two men.

They stumbled out of the kitchen into the now empty living room, clothes going in all directions. Enjolras didn’t stop, even though now that Grantaire was shirtless he could quite clearly see he was not in the same condition as he had been six weeks ago. Purple bruising ran all the way up his ribs and across his back, yellow and green in places.

Enjolras let Grantaire take over, surrendering to the fact that Grantaire was no longer containing himself. The man’s brown eyes were blown wide, the carefully constructed expression long gone so that every emotion of lust, anguish, desire, delight and pain flashed across his face. Enjolras leant across to lick up Grantaire’s scar, kissing the man’s eye socket, before collapsing back against the sofa as Grantaire raked blunt nails across his nipples.

“Fuck me,” he moaned as Grantaire followed him down, hands seizing Enjolras’s hips, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of Enjolras’s belly.

“Oh you think so?” Grantaire scraped his teeth over Enjolras’s ribs. “You yell at me and smash glasses and make demands and now it’s ‘fuck me’?” Grantaire huffed, leaning up to suck marks up and down Enjolras’s inviting neck before biting down hard enough to leave a raised semi-circle on white flesh.

He grabbed Enjolras’s hands, crossing them at the wrists and forcing them above the man’s head. He used his weight to pin the guy down against the sofa. He felt Enjolras push up against him and for a few moments they rutted together, both still clad in their boxers, Enjolras moaning in frustration.

“Fuck, R, I want your cock,” he groaned, eyes closed. 

Well that was it. With a growl, he pulled Enjolras off the sofa and half dragged half pushed the guy out of the living room and up the stairs. Ignoring the ache in his ribs, he threw Enjolras down on the bed. He dipped into the bedside table, seeking out the little bottle of lube before turning back to the man on the bed.

He ordered Enjolras onto his front, grabbing his hips, raising them up and parting the soft mounds of his arse cheeks so he could lick at Enjolras’s hole, making the man keen. Enjolras was clutching at the metal bedframe, knuckles white as he pressed his face into a pillow.

Grantaire wanted to tease him mercilessly, wanted to drag this out, occasionally pushing his tongue deeper, fucking him, opening him up. But the fact was he desperately wanted to bury himself hard and deep inside the man beneath him. He wanted to wreck Enjolras completely.

He satisfied himself by raking his fingers down Enjolras’s back, enjoying the raised red marks that instantly appeared. Lubing two fingers, he bit down once more on Enjolras’s shoulder, making the man gasp loudly as he thrust his fingers inside. Enjolras nearly came off the bed.

“Fuck, you bastard, I hate you,” Enjolras moaned.

“I hate you too,” Grantaire purred, scissoring the fingers just like he knew Enjolras loved and hated and needed. Enjolras moaned loudly as Grantaire continued to roughly open him up.

Grantaire enjoyed fucking Enjolras. There was nothing better than holding the guy down and just fucking him hard, feeling the blond writhe beneath him, always fighting, always pushing, even though Grantaire was giving him what he wanted, what he’d asked for. Hands clutched at sheets while Grantaire drove into him, brutally slamming his hips over and over, Enjolras arching his back to meet every thrust.

It was an old dance, one they knew well. They moved together perfectly, Grantaire’s hand on the back of Enjolras’s neck, holding him down, fingers pressing just hard enough to mark. Enjolras came first, rutting against the mattress, Grantaire following close behind. They lay gasping against the sheets, Enjolras rolling onto his side, pressing himself against Grantaire’s skin. The brunet hissed.

“Take it easy, are you blind?” He gestured towards his bruised body. Enjolras narrowed his eyes, huffing a sound of discontent before closing his eyes, his head resting against Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras’s voice was gentle but commanding nonetheless. He heard Grantaire sigh and then the man moved, sitting up, shifting so that he sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Enjolras. The blond chewed his lip in contemplation. It must have been really bad this time.

He scooted up onto his knees, draping himself over Grantaire’s back, running his fingers through brown curls and pressing soft kisses to his neck. Gently, he pulled Grantaire backwards and down, shuffling back as they went until the man was lying on his back, his head on Enjolras’s thighs. Grantaire stared up at him, brown eyes filled with apprehension.

“So,” the brunet finally said, breaking the silence. Enjolras twisted a curl round his index finger, waiting for Grantaire to continue. “Bouchard suspected someone might take a shot at him. I got followed by a couple of his people. I let it go on for longer than I should have before handing them their arses on a plate. I thought they might have some interesting information. It was a dumb thing to do, but the outcome was the same.”

Enjolras sat in silence for a few moments before responding.

“All right now?” Enjolras’s tone was deceptively light, but he tugged the curl round his finger firmly.

“Oh yes,” Grantaire confirmed. “All dealt with and cleaned up. No loose ends.” Enjolras nodded before leaning down to brush Grantaire’s forehead with a kiss.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Enjolras murmured. Grantaire hummed his response. Enjolras seized his head in a firm grip, fingers clenching in the dark brown curls. Grantaire hissed, but the look on his face was one of pure pleasure.

“I’m serious, R. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

+

The Bouchard Execution was a game-changer for Les Amis. It was the first of what became known as The Marked Assassin killings. It was the first politically motivated death, and earned Les Amis a certain amount of infamy. It wasn’t Grantaire’s first kill by any stretch, nor would it have been Jehan’s, nor was it the first time either of them had gone out on a job on Enjolras’s orders. However, it was the one that caught the public’s attention.

From State-approved sources, there was outcry, especially when one of Enjolras’s famous statements appeared pasted to various city walls around the country, admitting proudly to the involvement of Les Amis in bringing down such a corrupt and morally vacant individual. On a more local level, behind closed doors, in the privacy of their own minds, people set their shoulders and nodded their heads. Bouchard was a corrupt party-member businessman and rapist. He probably had it coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter annoyed me a lot - it took me ages to write and I'm still not happy with it but it's done. The point was to give some more context and the information is all relevant.
> 
> I am looking forward to the next chapter...


	7. In Which Eponine and Enjolras Come Face To Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan is put into action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for mentions of torture. There's nothing specific but it's quite... hard going.
> 
> Thanks to Sarah for being my beta!

Eponine took a deep breath, grateful that her presence in the office on a Sunday was not that unusual. She sat at her desk for two hours, working through some of her more mundane cases, nothing too out of the ordinary. Apparently engrossed in her work, there was little evidence on the surface of the storm raging round her mind. Nearly everything was in place, there were just two more things that remained. One of those was Marius. The other was more easily and immediately solved.

Checking the time, she rose to her feet and headed down towards the second floor where the After Hours Processing Unit was based, going over in her head what she wanted to say. She knew Dave would be in because the guy never seemed to leave the office. As she strode through the doors he looked up from his desk, pulling a face when he saw who it was.

“No,” he said, tone flat and final as he looked back down again. Eponine put on her best begging eyes.

“Please, Dave,” she groaned, putting on a show for him. His lips twitched but he shook his head. “Come on, you know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I have a ton of sweeps to do tomorrow and all the cars are booked.”

It was as if her entire career had been building up to this moment. When Admins like herself were sent out to camps to do random sweep interviews they usually booked one of the official cars, the only private vehicles authorised to be on the road. Due to the short supply of petrol and high workload, it wasn’t unusual for all the cars to be booked out on any given day. Usually this would mean having to rearrange the sweeps for another time. Or, if they were especially urgent, there was always the public transport network.

However, long ago she had learned that the After Hours guys had their own vans for transporting the people they picked up. If you knew to who you should smile nicely you might just convince them to let you borrow one. She’d done it on a number of occasions in the past, sometimes even when there had been a car available. She found something comforting about the larger vans, rather than the sleek purr of the cars.

The After Hours vans were almost identical to the Transfer Vans used to move convicts from place to place. Even if someone did spot the difference it would be assumed that there had been an authorised swap. It was perfect.

Part of her felt sorry for Dave. When all of this came out (which it would) he would undoubtedly be in the firing line for this. She made a mental note to have Combeferre organise something, evacuate him or similar, even if Dave might not necessarily be grateful in the short term. In the mean time she pouted and pleaded and finally Dave sighed and handed over the keys to one of the vans.

“Just bring it back in one piece!” he shouted after her as she triumphantly returned to her floor.

+

Eponine made sure that everything in the office looked normal before she left, even though most of her drawers were now empty and she had completely destroyed all her paperwork. She waved goodbye to the security clerk on the desk as usual when she left for home, stopping off at a store to pick up some groceries that she knew she would never use. 

It was strange, knowing that you were going home for the last time. She had been working on the inside for so long now she wondered what a real life would be like. Going to work, doing her job, keeping her ear to the ground for all sorts of information; filtering, manipulating, arranging. It had been hard, it had been tiring. She missed her friends and her loved ones. She missed her life. She wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. 

Knowing that Monday was going to be an extraordinarily busy day, she allowed only an hour for organising things into piles for the other Amis to tidy up in her absence. Then she took a long bath, soaking in the hot water, mulling over the plan for tomorrow. Curfew ended at five o’clock in the morning. She would pick up the van at half past five and then drive out to Meaux where she would meet up with Feuilly and Marius who were currently staying in Bossuet’s old family home.

There had been quite the political discussion about who would be accompanying her to Angers. At first she thought Grantaire would insist, and certainly it had seemed that way as the discussion had increased in intensity and volume. Finally he had been convinced that joining them for the first stage might very well endanger the second part of their mission as his scar was too easily recognised, especially considering his recent activities. He had already travelled down to Angers with Bossuet and Joly, and had arranged to liaise with Eponine and Feuilly once their initial visit to Angers was complete.

Eponine slept well. There was no point worrying or fretting and keeping herself up all night and it wasn’t in her nature. They needed her to be at her best tomorrow and she was damn well not going to let anyone down.

+

“Nervous?”

Most of the journey down to Angers had passed in silence, Feuilly watching Marius out of the corner of his eye. They had stopped about twenty minutes ago on a deserted road, taking the opportunity to stretch their legs, and in Feuilly’s case have a smoke. Both he and Eponine had eaten. Marius had only drunk some water. Now there was nothing else to do except for make the final thirty minute drive to the compound.

For this part, Marius would be alone in the back of the van, handcuffed and waiting. Feuilly took this final opportunity to speak to him because after the van door closed they would be in character.

Marius was sitting very still, his face closed and impassive, but a tightening in the jaw gave him away slightly. Feuilly could forgive him for that. For his own part, he was dressed in a heavy brushed cotton uniform that forced him to stand straight. It was unfamiliar with a faint smell of mothballs where it had been stored for nearly three years in the back of Bossuet’s wardrobe. 

“A little,” Marius admitted, but his voice was steady. Feuilly nodded, letting silence rest easy over them once more.

“Just take it slow, don’t draw attention to yourself. Let the uncertainty take over because you’ll be more convincing than if you’re all calm and confident. If you see Enjolras, let him come to you. Don’t ask any questions…”

Marius closed his eyes, letting Feuilly’s words wash over him. He had heard the speech from Combeferre already. A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the moment. Feuilly was gazing at him softly.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said steadily. Marius swallowed before nodding.

Eponine hugged him tightly but otherwise didn’t say anything. She opened the back of the van for him and he gingerly pulled himself up. He stood, facing forward, so she could attach the cuffs round his wrists before he settled himself on the bench inside the van.

“Good luck,” Feuilly muttered as the door swung shut.

+

It was all about presentation. March in like you own the place and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise and you can take the world. It was Eponine’s mantra and Feuilly noticed her slip into this role as they drove down the track to the Angers complex.

Feuilly had taken over the wheel, fulfilling his role as Admin Lackey for the day. He was good at watching and listening, analysing and translating, and the presence of the uniform meant he had carte blanche to do just that. Eponine would be the voice of this excursion and a very capable one at that. It was perfect.

They were flagged down at the first check point, guns and dogs and only two uniforms as standard. 

“Transfer from Reims,” Eponine waved an official-looking envelope in the general direction of the nearest uniform who glanced over to his counterpart. The other uniform jerked his head and they stood back, letting the car pass.

The second check point was five hundred yards further down the track, a small hut with a barrier and two more uniforms. Again Eponine waved the envelope, but this uniform was a bit more thorough and requested her ID card. She produced it and waited patiently for its return. The barrier was raised. Two down, one to go.

The final check point stood before a set of tall wrought-iron gates. Already a team of uniforms were waiting, along with some dog handlers. A senior uniform, possibly even a level five, stood waiting, hands clasped behind her back.

“Good morning,” Eponine greeted politely, handing over the envelope with the documents and her ID card to the Uniform who didn’t reply. Instead, she deftly opened the envelope and pulled out its contents.

Eponine waited. She wasn’t nervous. Those papers were faultless. The signatures were genuine, even if the name on the papers was not. It was amazing how easy it was to obtain a signature from an under-director or a director when required. They always seemed so keen to put their name against anything you put in front of them.

The Uniform took their time, reading over the document carefully and Eponine felt grateful for her own attention to detail. Finally the nod was given and the gates were opened. Feuilly didn’t look at her as he drove the van into the Angers complex. Eponine tried not to smile. No one ever asked for the driver’s details.

They were directed around behind a long grey building with no windows. The whole place was eerily quiet, given the number of staff here, not to mention inmates. Eponine was used to noise when visiting camps and facilities, either from the exercise yard or from inside the walls, the sound of lives struggling on regardless. Feuilly parked the van as directed. He risked a quick look at Eponine, an imperceptible nod and then they climbed out.

“Welcome to Angers,” another Uniform was waiting for them, striding over with their hand extended. Eponine accepted the handshake with a smile.

“Reims is a long way to come, I trust your journey was not too arduous?” The question was pleasant enough, just empty talk while the two Admins walked away from the van to complete the paperwork inside. Eponine didn’t even look round as Feuilly walked towards the back of the van, allowing herself to be led inside the main building.

Marius was trying to keep calm. The last ten minutes had been almost unbearable as the van had repeatedly slowed and accelerated before stopping completely, the sudden silence making his pulse thump loudly in his ears. He heard the sound of boots outside and then the van door was thrown open. Feuilly was there, along with a number of other people in uniform. He got a vague impression of grey sky and trees before he was pulled out of the van and pushed towards a metal door in the side of a red brick building.

Feuilly had hold of his left shoulder which was comforting as he was negotiated inside the block. Around him the guards talked amongst themselves, asking Feuilly for Marius’s details and his check-in paperwork.

“We’ll get him processed. You want a drink?” One of the guards asked Feuilly who gratefully accepted, following the man from the room and leaving Marius alone. Marius took a deep steadying breath. He could do this.

Being processed was everything Marius had expected. He was stripped out of his civilian clothes, hosed down in a wet room, issued with blue scrubs and then taken to a room where he was left to sit and wait. He wasn’t sure how long he had been left alone, and he wondered if he was being observed. It wouldn’t have surprised him. He wondered how the others were getting on.

+

Eponine was sitting in a comfortable office, holding a drink that had been pressed into her hands by the Administrator who had met them at the van.

“I had been told that they weren’t going to send us any more subjects,” the woman began, taking a sip of her drink. Eponine raised her glass in salute before taking a sip herself.

“I was quite surprised myself, I haven’t been here before, but the director was most insistent,” she sighed, as though this wasn’t the first whim of her Director that she had to unquestioningly bow to. The Admin quirked a conspiratorial smile. “As you know,” Eponine grinned, “the paperwork is not to be questioned.” 

The Admin raised her glass in recognition and Eponine smiled. She had judged this one’s character well. She decided to push her luck.

“Actually, on that subject. I don’t suppose I could be cheeky and ask a favour?” The Admin crinkled her brow in response, but her silence encouraged Eponine to continue.

“I’m supposed to be down again later this week to do some sweeps. I don’t suppose I could do one now? Save me coming back.”

“Do you have the paperwork?” It wasn’t a no which was encouraging. Eponine took another drink before nodding. 

“In the van. I got given it yesterday and brought it with me just in case,” she gave the Admin a shy, almost embarrassed smile. The Admin shrugged her shoulders.

“We don’t usually have sweeps,” she twirled the glass in her hand as she considered. “These are patients. Criminal patients, I grant you, but patients nonetheless. Our work here is to cure them of their criminal behaviour.” 

Eponine tried to gauge the woman’s meaning. It was as though she was arguing with herself. Eponine attempted to nudge her along.

“Part of that recovery is for the patient to admit the problem. If they speak to us, if anything is noted on their file, it could work in their favour during –” Eponine paused, looking for the right word.

“Assessment?” The Administrator supplied helpfully. Eponine nodded while the Administrator considered further. 

“I’ll see if I can find you a patient list. If you have all the documents you may as well get it all done. Reims is quite a long trek.” The Admin studied Eponine for a moment and Eponine let her, forcing herself to relax, to let the gratitude show on her face, taking another sip of the drink. 

+

Feuilly was cataloguing. The refectory to which he had been led was quite small considering the staff list was at least six hundred. This was more suited to maybe one hundred and fifty, two hundred at a push. It was more like an army mess hall than a canteen, with colours on the wall and regimental photographs. He accepted their hospitality, slipping into character almost effortlessly. His body radiated hard work under the uniform. Promoted through the ranks, perhaps. It was recognised and they spoke to him respectfully as a result.

He didn’t ask any questions, letting them all chat around him, relax in his company. There were the usual gripes about hours and pay, not enough holidays. His ears pricked up at the mention of a mouthy patient in ward seven but refused to let his mind jump to obvious conclusions. Instead he took note of how protocol was followed. Feuilly hadn’t been signed in. No one had asked for his name or any papers. They had just accepted him so, clearly, drivers or accompanying guardsmen were run of the mill. He was one of them.

The atmosphere changed when Eponine and her fellow Admin entered the room about forty-five minutes later. There was a scrambling of feet and pushing of chairs as everyone tried to get to their feet to salute their superior. Feuilly followed suit.

“There you are,” Eponine frowned at him. Feuilly took in the looks of sympathy from his companions. “I need you for a sweep, come on.” Her tone was clipped and he had no choice but to glance sheepishly at his fellows before following her from the hall. It was a good move. You never knew when little alliances like that might prove useful.

A sweep was good news. It meant that Eponine had talked the Admin into giving her a patient list and, more than that, had agreed to let her conduct interviews. He was aware that Eponine and the Admin were talking in front of him and he strained to hear their conversation without walking too close behind.

“This isn’t like the camps, this is a hospital,” the Admin was saying. He saw Eponine nod. “It is unlikely they’ll even speak to you.” They came to a sudden stop outside a door. Eponine turned her head so Feuilly could see her smile in profile.

“They usually never do,” she replied. The Admin nodded, before opening the door.

It was a typical interview room, containing a desk with two chairs on one side and one on the other. Feuilly moved to stand in a corner, his job being simply to observe and provide crowd control. Eponine was looking down the list, marking names with her pen while she chewed her lip. Feuilly held his breath. 

Sweeps were easy. From the list of inmates or, in this case, patients the interviewer selected up to ten names. A series of questions were put to those chosen which, as Eponine had already commented, usually went unanswered. Anything said was noted on the inmate’s file for “consideration”. Occasionally some did speak in the hope that it might help their case, but most of the time it just led to increased paperwork. 

Eponine handed her list over to the Administrator who glanced down it.

“Enjolras!” the administrator exclaimed, as though she found the name amusing. “I thought you might select him.”

“Well of course,” Eponine met the challenge head on, smiling with her head on one side. “I mean, obviously I know it’s not _the_ Enjolras. But how could I resist? Besides, they may well have taken the name symbolically. Whatever the reason, it leapt out at me.” She sat back in her chair, waiting for the Administrator to finish reading through the rest of the names.

Feuilly carefully released the breath he was holding. So Enjolras’s name was on the patient list. He was here. The Admin gave the list to a runner and then it was simply a matter of arranging papers and preparing for the first on the list. They even went to the trouble of digging out the patient files for Eponine to refer to.

To each patient, Eponine gave the same speech; that she was there from the central Gendarmerie conducting a standard sweep and that any information they were willing to provide would be noted down on the file for future consideration in any upcoming Assessments but that she was not in the position to offer or negotiate any kind of deal with respect to release or privileges.

The first four patients were varying degrees of unhelpful. They sat back in their chairs, pale and wary. From his vantage point in the corner, Feuilly took in the poor condition of their skin, their shaved heads, the way the scrubs hung off them. There were bruises and track marks on the backs of their hands, echoes of injections and cannulas. He suppressed a shudder, concentrating on Eponine’s voice. She allowed her glass of water to empty, and was pleased when the Administrator rose to fill it automatically without waiting for Eponine to ask. Even better, she didn’t ask Feuilly to do it for her.

Eponine was thorough, deliberately taking her time with each patient, very aware that Enjolras’s name alone had already drawn attention from the Administrator. She was unwilling to attract further speculation by appearing overly anxious to interview the man. At this stage, she was fully prepared for someone who wasn’t Enjolras to come in his place, especially as the Administrator had not responded to her comment with regards to the patient’s identity. She was trying to mentally organise her reaction so that she didn’t appear surprised if a complete stranger appeared.

Enjolras was patient eight, so there were another three people to go before then. Patient five was young, much younger than the others. He was obviously scared out of his wits, pale to the point of transparent, thin with a waxy complexion.

“What do you know about Bishop’s Hospital in Digne?” Eponine asked for the fifth time.

“Please, I just want to go home. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the boy’s voice cracked, for that’s what he was, really. Just a boy. Maybe nineteen. Too young to be having his life ruined in here. Eponine wondered what he had done to draw the attention of the System, what twists the path of his life had taken for him to end up here.

“What can you tell me about the Father Mestienne conspiracy?”

“Please, can I go home? My mother –”

And so it went on, the answer to each of Eponine’s questions was a plea to be allowed to go home, to see his family. It was awful. Eponine continued stoically through it before the young man was escorted out. Before patient six was let in, she skimmed through patient five’s file, trying to commit his name to memory before realising that from tonight she would no longer be in the position to exercise any influence. All the same, she hoped he would find his way home.

Patient six and patient seven refused to answer her questions. They eyed her suspiciously, arms folded. Eponine diligently asked them each question, pausing appropriately before moving on to the next. Finally, she was done with patient seven. She shifted her papers, turning to a new page in her notebook, ignoring the way her heartbeat suddenly picked up because the time had come, make or break. Patient eight was pending.

She’d timed it perfectly, of course. Her water glass was nearly empty. There were two, maybe three sips left.

Eponine didn’t look up as the door opened, purposefully engrossed in patient eight’s file. _Enjolras’s_ file. Certainly to all intents and purposes it would appear to be him. Frequent placements in solitary confinement and increasingly severe episodes of temper, usually violent. No appreciable response to medication or shock therapy. No remission observed at this time. 

For some reason Eponine wanted to smile; Enjolras had been giving them hell.

Feuilly could only see the back of patient eight’s head but he would know that stance anywhere. For the first time in two years he was in the same room as Enjolras. It was a powerful sensation. His silhouette was the same; the same straightness in his shoulders, the same vibrating energy that seemed to exude from every pore. His hair had been shaved, and Grantaire was going to hate that so much… Feuilly bit down on his lip, clenching his right hand, digging the nails deep into his palm as he forced himself to remain in character, grateful that no one ever looked his way.

Finally, Eponine looked up. She allowed herself a brief moment to look over the man who stood before her, knowing that the Administrator would expect that of her. The Administrator wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly who she had in this facility. She would be waiting for Eponine’s reaction.

For his part, Enjolras was staring at her, not in shock or surprise, but with undisguised malevolent distaste and oh, she had missed that look! It was the one he reserved for every person in power, every bureaucrat who worked for the government; every hypocrite, every lackey, every jobsworth who facilitated the continuation of the Interim Government in all its corrupted ignominy.

He was pushed into the seat on the other side of the desk the same as the five patients before him. He sat back, arms resting by his side, not folded aggressively, or defensively holding himself together. He was thin, like the others, and extremely pale with deep black shadows round his eyes. Along the underside of his neck, barely visible, was a mark, almost a scar running along the top of his throat. On his temples were slight bruises, similar to those observed in the autopsy of the body pulled out of the river. Eponine suppressed a shudder, glancing back to her notes. She took a sip of water before looking up.

“My name is Eponine Thenardier, I’m from the Central Gendarmerie at Reims,” she rattled off the same speech, observing Enjolras as she did the others. “We have some questions to ask you as part of a standard sweep. You are not obliged to answer these questions however any information you provide to us will be noted down and taken into consideration at any future Assessments. Please bear in mind that I am not in the position to offer or negotiate any deals with regards to your treatment here or any future or pending release date.” She paused, taking another sip of water.

“Do you understand?”

Enjolras looked at her, no flicker of recognition in his eyes. His glance was empty and brief before looking down to the surface of the table. Eponine sighed, scribbling a note on her page before moving on to question one.

Enjolras remained silent through the first six questions. He didn’t look up or engage or show any sign of having heard Eponine’s questions. Just before question seven, Eponine finished her glass of water. She glared at the empty glass, but proceeded to ask the next question anyway. 

Of course, Enjolras refused to answer as usual. Half way through the pause that followed the question, Eponine reached for her empty glass, before retracting her hand with an annoyed click of her tongue. In her head she counted down from ten. Just as Eponine reached two, the Administrator rose to her feet.

“Shall I get you some more water?” she offered, reaching for Eponine’s glass.

“Please,” she replied, eyes fixed on the paper in front of her. As the Administrator left the room, Feuilly moved in front of the door.

“Tonight,” Eponine spoke quickly and calmly, her volume low so as not to attract the minions standing outside. She heard Enjolras exhale. “What block are you in?”

“Seven,” Enjolras’s voice was ragged, not its usual rich quality. “Solitary.”

His shoulders sagged a little and his eyes closed, revealing for the first time just how exhausted he was.

“Give me numbers,” Eponine hissed, eyes flicking to Feuilly who still stood by the door.

“Eight, ten, ten, seven, eight, overall eight, maybe nine,” he rattled off, Eponine scribbling it all down, the long established code invented by Joly as a quick way of communicating the condition of each limb starting with the head down to the feet. Knowing Enjolras he was probably overestimating so it worried Eponine greatly that he hadn’t given straight tens for everything, especially his head. When she looked up, Enjolras was staring right at her, those powerful blue eyes no longer angry or bitter, but full of emotion.

“R?” Enjolras looked like he almost didn’t want to know, and Eponine knew how he felt. She’d seen that look on Grantaire’s face two years before.

“He’s here,” Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut once more, running a hand over his shaved scalp, nodding his head.

Feuilly coughed, stepping away from the door back to his position by the wall. He noted Enjolras’s altered position; how he straightened his spine and set his shoulders, once more assuming his persona. Eponine allowed her gaze to rest upon him, her head set slightly to one side as though she was considering him.

She looked up as the Administrator re-entered the room, gratefully accepting the water and taking a sip before moving on to the next question.

Enjolras ignored her for the rest of the interview, his gaze fixed upon the surface of the table. At the end, he was pulled to his feet. As he was turned around to face the door, his glance fell upon Feuilly. As their eyes met, Feuilly felt a jolt as the full horror of the situation hit him. Enjolras had been in the System for two years. He was scarred, he was damaged, he was waiting for them, waiting for R. He wondered how the man held it together. Then he was gone.

Eponine wasn’t sure how she conducted the rest of the interviews after that. Patients nine and ten blurred together somewhat and before she knew it she was in the corridor, shaking the hands of the Administrator and thanking them for their help. She and Feuilly made their way back to the van, climbing inside with a final wave to the staff before driving back down the track towards the road.

They got three miles away before Feuilly pulled over to the side of the road, jumping out to be sick in the bushes, even though it had been at least three hours since his last meal. Eponine sat in the van, trying and failing to stop the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few points of reference:
> 
> 1) Bossuet would definitely have a family home in Meaux  
> 2) The Bishop Hospital at Digne is a reference to the fact that the Bishop of Digne swapped out his house with the hospital so the latter could have more room  
> 3) Father Mestienne was the old grave digger friend of M. Fauchelevent who died at a most inopportune moment when Valjean was trying to surreptitiously break out of a convent


	8. In Which There Is A Row In The Run Up To The Rally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has his eyes firmly fixed on the future cresting the horizon. Grantaire does not share his enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Nothing nasty here, just a lot of shouting.

Marius didn’t like thinking about the six months prior to the Paris Protest. He found it hard to remember his friends, the way they talked with excitement and planned with real hope for change. They didn’t know that in six months they would be broken beyond all recognition; that at least two of their number would be dead. They didn’t know the full horrors to come.

Les Amis had cultivated quite the reputation, their name muttered behind closed doors up and down the country. There were other groups, just as active, and small protests and public gatherings had been going on in various towns and cities. These had been quickly suppressed, only to reappear elsewhere, a symptom of the underlying unrest; but now something bigger was in preparation. The whispers were getting louder and glimpses could be caught of a possible revolution. .

Meetings took place in backrooms of wine-shops and cafés. Subversive pamphlets were read, numbers of men and women sympathetic to the cause were recorded. Comments were passed between grocer and customer over the purchase of cauliflowers. 

The inactivity of the Gendarmerie was not treated with the suspicion it should have been. There was the general assumption by groups such as Les Amis, like Glaciere in the West, Picpus in Normandy, Estrapade in Bretagne, or Cougourde in the South; all these groups believed they operated undetected and that the Interim Government had no idea of the plans currently in gestation.

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had met with the various leaders of all of these groups, and others besides, in an attempt to bring some sort of unity. Individually, they could only get so far. As a united front, theoretically they could be unstoppable.

Marius remembered that Grantaire was especially quiet during this time, sitting at the back of whatever room they were in, glaring at nothing in particular. It was almost as though he was sulking about something. It would be easy, with the benefit of hindsight, to say that Grantaire had known from the start that it would never, could never end well.

When Grantaire did open his mouth it was to argue with Enjolras, and not in the way Marius had become used to in the years he had lived in Reims. These were actual arguments, with carefully chosen words aimed for devastating effect. Judging by the stunned, awkward and uncomfortable responses from his friends, Marius wasn’t the only one who had noticed the difference.

It all came to a head one night about two months before the Planned Event. It had been decided amongst the groups that only a grand gesture would get their message across. There was to be a peaceful protest, a rally, made up of thousands of people and held right in the centre of Paris. Speeches would be made setting out their ideas and the people would listen which meant that, in the face of such support, the government would be forced to take them seriously.

“You’re off the fucking planet, you know that?” Grantaire’s voice cut across Enjolras’s optimistic speech. All heads turned in his direction and Marius heard Courfeyrac sigh beside him.

“Oh, here we go again,” Courfeyrac muttered under his breath, and Combeferre took off his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Something to add?” Enjolras replied, somewhat acidly.

“I notice you haven’t discussed weaponry,” Grantaire stared at him levelly.

“That’s because this is a rally, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed as though explaining to a small child. “It’s hard to protest peacefully, trying to convince people that our intentions are non-violent, if we’re waving guns around.”

“So, you’re just going to go empty handed? Present yourselves as sacrificial lambs to the altar of the IG? Perhaps you could arrange to throw flowers at the National Guard even as they charge you with fixed bayonets. Or perhaps an umbrella to combat those nasty water cannons? Has it actually crossed your mind that the Gendarmerie might use this as an excuse to round you all up and arrest you? Has it even occurred to you that they have no intention of listening to anyone; they only wish to smash you with their iron fist, to silence your hopeful voices in the most public way possible -” Grantaire was incredulous, his arms folded and his voice getting louder. The others shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Of course I’ve considered it, but I’d much rather set out the ideas of the day, working on the basis that the rally will go well,” Enjolras slammed his fist into the table in frustration. Combeferre cleared his throat, but Grantaire wasn’t finished.

“That’s just unrealistic!” the man snorted, shaking his head, leaning backwards against the wall.

“Why?” Enjolras stuck out his chin belligerently. “Because I don’t always want to solve my problems by blowing them into the next world? Surely you can go five minutes without sending someone off to meet their –” 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre stood up, because that was just uncalled for. Marius wasn’t looking at their chief anymore, his eyes were on Grantaire who was standing stock still, his face completely closed.

“Oh fuck you,” Grantaire breathed at last, pushing his way through the group and slamming the door behind him.

“That was unnecessary, Enjolras,” Combeferre glared at his friend, but Enjolras resolutely ignored him.

“Moving on,” Enjolras flicked through his paperwork as though the interruption had never happened.

There was quiet murmuring in the room until Enjolras looked up, his expression reducing everyone to silence. Marius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, privately thinking that Grantaire had a point. 

+

“Enjolras. I’m going to ask you once, and I’m going to ask you nicely. Go. Away.”

Grantaire was lying on the bottom bunk of the bed set up in the spare room. Enjolras leant against the doorframe, staring at the man’s back; the shape of his shoulders through his jumper, the way it rode up at the hip, revealing a sliver of skin, the way his messy brown curls contrasted against the faded cream pillow.

“Please come to bed,” Enjolras said at last, before swallowing nervously. He didn’t often say please; Grantaire didn’t normally require Enjolras to use that word. He hoped the gesture would be recognised as the olive branch it was intended to be. He was met with stony silence.

After a beat he stepped in the room, trying to ignore the way Grantaire hunched his shoulders at the sound of his approach.

“Seriously, Enjolras. I mean it. If you have any self-preservation left I highly suggest you leave me the fuck alone.”

Enjolras stopped by the edge of the bed. He desperately wanted to reach out to Grantaire, to bury his hands in those curls, tug hard, bring the man up to him and devour him, blend them both until they were lost and it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began. He clenched his fists by his side.

“Is that it then?” he said at last, feeling something very deep inside him start to crack. “Are we done?” Grantaire whirled round, moving so fast it startled Enjolras and the blond took a step back, away from the bunk.

“No we’re not fucking done!” Grantaire shouted and Enjolras was sure he could feel the ground quake beneath his feet. “Fuck, Enjolras, are you just trying to hurt me now? When has that ever been a thing with us? Everything we’ve done together, everything I’ve done for you –”

Grantaire cut himself off, turning away once more and slamming his head back down on the pillow. He was furious and, much to his absolute disgust, his treacherous body began to shake and the unfamiliar sensation of tears began to prick at his eyes. 

He felt the bed dip and then there was the calming warmth of Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to hear you say that,” Enjolras’s voice was low, almost uncertain. “Because I can’t do this without you. It’s not even when you argue with me, that’s fine – I can deal with that. It’s the way you’ve been looking at me lately.” Grantaire heard Enjolras pause, could almost sense the way he dragged air into his lungs. He could imagine Enjolras biting his lower lip, considering his next words. 

“It sends my blood cold. It makes me wonder if I’m no longer enough for you.”

Grantaire couldn’t even begin to communicate what was going on in his head. He couldn’t explain how it felt, watching Enjolras fly high towards everything that he had been hoping for, towards the changes for which he was so desperate. Enjolras was gliding on wings of faith provided by their friends, and now also the other groups with which they were associated. There was the promise of the people turning out to support them, and Grantaire didn’t think he could bear to watch those wings melt. Not again. They weren’t boys anymore and there was a lot more at stake. 

How could he tell Enjolras that whenever he looked at him, he saw a fifteen year old boy sitting alone in the Lower-Middle Youth Programme refectory; disappointed with himself and angry at the world for abandoning him. Grantaire desperately wanted to be wrong; he wanted Enjolras to succeed, if only so that he didn’t ever have to see that look on Enjolras’s face again.

Enjolras slid onto the bunk slowly, as though approaching a wild animal. Tentatively, he reached out, curling his arm round Grantaire. To his surprise, the man rolled over to face him, before wrapping himself tightly round Enjolras, burying his face in the blond’s neck.

“Grantaire,” he sighed, relaxing immediately, pressing himself closer, if that was at all possible, soaking up the sensation of being so close to the man once more. Grantaire said nothing, only snuggled a little closer, before pressing a single kiss to Enjolras’s throat.

“Oh, my R, my R,” Enjolras muttered, as he raked his fingers through Grantaire’s curls and gently kissed any part of his face and forehead to which he could gain access. Grantaire sighed in his arms but showed no signs of letting go, allowing Enjolras to pet him, to kiss him, to be with him.

“You and I want very different things, Enjolras,” Grantaire’s deep, throaty tone filtered up from where his face was pressed into Enjolras’s shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras replied, carefully. He didn’t want to start another row but at the same time he was unwilling to lie. “We both want to bring an end to the current state of affairs.”

Grantaire pulled his head back, but kept his arms where they were. He shuffled up to press their foreheads together, his eyes closed as though dragging something painful through his mind.

“But you think things can be changed for the better,” he said at last, his voice flat and stubborn.

“I want to be given the chance to try,” Enjolras replied, tightening his grip on the man in his arms.

That night they slept together in the bunk, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Courfeyrac, worried by the silence, stuck his head round the door to ensure they hadn’t actually killed each other. Not wishing to disturb them, he quickly ducked back out. He offered his bed to Feuilly who was supposed to be in the top bunk, and Courfeyrac ended up sharing with Combeferre, an arrangement that was agreeable to all.

+

Marius was surprised to see Grantaire at breakfast the next day. The man was quiet, poking at his cereal and letting his coffee go cold, but he was there nonetheless. The others wished him good morning and he mumbled a greeting in return. When Enjolras came into the room Grantaire didn’t look up, but he also didn’t flinch away when Enjolras brushed his hand across Grantaire’s shoulders. 

Peace returned and the making of plans continued. Grantaire resumed his silent vigil, never taking his eyes off the man making all the noise at the front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you's to all you lovely people commenting, it has really spurred me on!
> 
> The next chapter is pretty much ready to go, just needs a few finishing touches. Usual bouquet of flowers to Sarah for being my beta and allowing me to traumatise her (at length)


	9. In Which Enjolras And Marius Reflect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius settles in and we find out what happened to Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. this is not a happy chapter at all so please be aware of the following;
> 
> huge wacking great enormous trigger warning for hanging. Additionally, trigger warnings for hospitals, surgical operations as a means of torture and experimentation on humans. 
> 
> There's also brief mentions of disordered eating (in the context of torture/using humans as labrats), references to ECT, language associated with asylums and negative approaches to mental health. Also mentions of flogging.
> 
> (on a lighter note, my beta also advised me to warn for "devastating amounts of feelings")

Enjolras was relieved when they took him from his cell for the final time. The endless charade of torture masked as interrogation in the aftermath of the Paris rally had worn him down to a numb husk of a creature lying upon the cold stone floor of his cell. He knew he would die. He was proud to die, to be a martyr for his beliefs. He wondered if there was an afterlife and, if there was, whether he would meet Grantaire there, or any of his other friends. 

It was his heart that kept him painfully tied to this earth. He hated not knowing whether Grantaire was alive or dead, free or captured, imprisoned or executed. As he entered the small, windowless room containing a row of wooden posts, he supposed he would finally find out, one way or another.

He would not die alone; there were nine others with him, though he did not recognise any of their faces. He wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not. Some were quiet, already dead in their minds. A couple shed tears, silently or otherwise. Only one openly howled at the sight of the pillars and their bonds. He stepped forward automatically, waiving away the offered bandage to his eyes. He was determined to be calm, to be serious as befitted his final moments. However, when the rope was placed around his neck, he could not stop his pulse from pounding painfully loudly in his ears. His breath grew quick as the noose tightened, and right at the end, as he was dragged up and off his feet, his body began to fight, to twist and flail as it attempted to hold on this meagre spectre of life.

Enjolras died.

+

They patted him down before returning him to the Isolation Ward. It was a ridiculous title, quite honestly and he hated the implicit lie of it. He was in solitary confinement and no amount of paint and carefully selected words was going to change the fact that this was a prison in disguise. A prison and a science lab.

Once back in his room, the door closed and locked, Enjolras sat down carefully on his bed, just perching on the edge. He disliked lying down, had disliked it before his experiences in the system, and hated it even more now. Lying down meant looking up. Looking up meant ceilings, light fittings and not being able to see what was going on, what they were doing to him now, and only catching glimpses of things as they crossed his vision. When possible, Enjolras slept sitting up. Apparently this was a popular talking point amongst his doctors, therapists and guards. Somehow his fear of being horizontal had translated itself into a classic symptom of criminality.

The first doctor Enjolras could remember was the one who had said that Enjolras would make him famous, that a whole new area of medicine was being discovered just by Enjolras lying down. Enjolras had bitten his index finger off. He’d escaped a lashing only because his medical team advised that such an act would skew the results of their favourite and most precious experiment. At that point he had still been unable to walk. No doubt several essays and journals had been written about Subject Twenty-two and their digit-removing abilities, despite his being mostly paralysed. 

It had all been explained to him by one of the curious residents. Enjolras was dead. His body belonged to the State and so the State was free to do anything they liked to it. The State’s first whim was, apparently, to see if it was possible to bring Enjolras back from the dead, despite having hanged him most assiduously in the basement of some prison camp in god-knows-where, France. The experiment had been carried out on one hundred subjects. Thirty-six had survived. Eighteen were still alive after two weeks. The curious resident had stared at Enjolras like they were a rare diamond.

“You’re one of only ten original subjects. It’s fascinating.”

Of course, you didn’t recover from hanging over night. Enjolras didn’t remember those early weeks, and he didn’t want to remember them. He understood that he had been resuscitated and nursed back to health, not out of any particular care for their patient, but just to see if they could. After that, they had a fully functioning and healthy test subject.

Enjolras wasn’t sure how long his life had been like this. He measured time in how often his hair was shaved off. Thirty-four times under the hair clippers meant that he’d been awake, conscious and fully aware of his surroundings for at least eighteen months. In that time he had been taught how to walk all over again, he’d had countless blood tests, ten x-rays and two operations, one which involved taking a section of his liver, the other removing his gall bladder. 

He’d had his bone marrow taken, two lumbar punctures and four rounds of Electroconvulsive therapy. He had considered that to be especially ironic, not least because those sessions were often at the mercy of the various power outages to which the more rural areas of France were prone. As a result they were often done hastily and sloppily with insufficient jelly which, not only had been unbelievably painful, but had also left him with faint marks on his temples.

There was also the fractured ankle that was allowed to heal without a cast or any pain medication. His doctor had said Enjolras deserved it for trying to escape. It had been his second of three unsuccessful escape attempts and for those he had been flogged. On that particular occasion, he had already been so out of his head with the pain of his broken ankle that he had passed out before the tenth stroke. 

Everything was monitored closely; his food intake, his weight, his lung capacity, his blood pressure, blood sugar levels, iron levels. He had been on every conceivable diet and had suffered through various “fastings” lasting at least three days.

For a system of government that allegedly feared technology and its implications and influence on the future in all its forms, they were astonishingly fascinated with what science could tell them about Enjolras. Because that was what it was all about; they wanted to know what made Enjolras tick. He was a criminal, he operated outside the agreed social and behavioural structures of the rest of society and they wanted to know why. They wanted to identify the cause of this terrible disease and cure it the way that immunisation had eradicated smallpox.

Occasionally Enjolras wondered how much all this cost. Surely the money would be better spent on the poorer echelons of society, rather than wasting it on prolonging his miserable life. 

The marks on his back from his most recent escape attempt had all but faded and he’d had his hair cut twice since then. The transfer to a new location had not been entirely unexpected; the last set of doctors had grown bored of his behaviour and were happy to transfer his “ongoing treatment” to a new team of specialists to see what they could come up with in an attempt to cure him of his criminal afflictions.

When Enjolras had been collected from his room that day, he assumed it was for a new therapy session and was fully braced for an afternoon of aggressive silence. What he had not expected was to come face to face with Eponine. He was aware that there was someone behind him and from the way Eponine’s gaze kept flicking over to them it was obviously someone he knew. It took all his power and self-control not to turn around. For the first time in a very long time, he was aware of the blood pumping through his veins, of the life inside his chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of his heart and he tried not to think, tried not to hope, that it was Grantaire who stood behind him.

Back in his room, Enjolras went over the episode in his head in minute detail. Obviously it was Feuilly, not Grantaire, who had come with Eponine. But Eponine had said R was there. He tried to remember her exact reaction to his question. 

“He’s here.”

On reflection it was a bad choice of words. On the positive side, it meant that Grantaire was very much still alive and that Eponine knew where he was. However, those two words could mean any number of things. Was Grantaire with them, just not in this room? Or was Grantaire a patient like Enjolras?

Enjolras shuddered. He hoped above all things that Grantaire had not been subject to the same experience. Enjolras would not wish this fate on any human.

Eponine hadn’t given much away. She had been efficient and to the point. She looked healthy and focused and very much in her element. Feuilly had been a little more uncomfortable. He looked thinner and older, and there had been something very tired about his eyes.

But they were alive. At least three of his friends were alive and they had found him and Eponine had said, had promised: _tonight_.

Enjolras was a patient man. He sat quietly on the bed, staring into space, apparently unaware of the faces that came and went outside the observation glass. He behaved as he always did after coming back from an appointment or a session; by retreating into his mind where the doctors couldn’t follow. 

+

“Let me make this very clear to you. From this moment you do not exist. You exist outside of the system and are subject only to the laws that exist within this compound. We say jump, you jump until you’re told to stop.”

The man gave Marius a piercing look which sent a shiver down his spine and for a moment he was reminded of Combeferre. Except that, while Combeferre often glared at Marius, his looks were never cold. 

Marius tried to keep his bearings using the memory technique Grantaire had tried to teach him. Left, left, right, stairs down, across yard, door, stairs up, right, stairs, corridor. He was led through a locked door marked Ward Five.

“At the moment all the doors are open,” his tour guide gestured at the doors as he led Marius down the corridor. “Lock up is 9pm. You’re new so there’ll be checks every thirty minutes.” Marius filed that information away for later.

A number of rooms were pointed out to him; therapy room, ward office, day room. The latter was a large room filled with uncomfortable wipe-clean chairs that had been screwed down. There were windows set high up by the ceiling so light came in but no one could see out. Additionally they were heavily barred.

“Everyone is out at lunch right now, so let’s get you set up in a room.”

It was a simple room. The bed was part of the wall and contained rounded edges and a plastic mattress. He was relieved to see that there was an actual toilet rather than a bucket. Natural light entered through a letterbox shaped window up high on the right opposite the bed. Marius considered that, all in all, it could have been worse.

The afternoon was absolutely terrifying. He wasn’t permitted to hide in his room by the Ward Manager who insisted he partake in group therapy where he met the other people on his corridor. When he sat down, the guy next to him told him to keep his mouth shut in no uncertain terms.

“Unless you want to end up on Ward Seven with the Project,” he added, voice dark with insinuation

“The what?” Marius’s heart leapt in his chest.

“Solitary. It’s where they keep their experiments. If you say anything too outlandish, or cause any sort of trouble, you get sent there.”

Marius would have liked to have asked more, but Combeferre and Feuilly’s voices were ringing loud in his ears. Don’t ask questions. Don’t draw attention to yourself. So he kept his head down and waited, knowing that his friends were coming.

Instead he watched and he listened. The “therapist” talked and the group listened. No one volunteered and everyone spoke up, chanting together at the end, reciting their lessons on how the government was right and they were wrong. It reminded Marius of when his grandfather used to drag him to church.

At nine o’clock his door was locked. For a while he sat in the dark on the edge of the bed. After thirty minutes a face appeared at the observation window and shone a torch inside, full on Marius’s face. Then it was gone and Marius was left alone with his thoughts.

_Tonight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words on the method of hanging referred to here. I know a lot of people are familiar with the "sharp drop sudden stop" method which breaks the neck. This method was developed as something of an artform to make to the whole process quicker. Originally, it was more like what is described here. The victim would be hoisted up until they suffocated. Needless to say it took an awfully long time and (so one might imagine) was extremely painful. The friction burns caused by the rope would leave scars (assuming the victim survived - I know the whole point is for them not to survive, but you know what I mean) hence Enjolras does have a scar all around his neck which was referred to briefly in chapter seven.
> 
> Massive glass of wine to my beta for her sterling efforts.
> 
> To the rest of you, I can only apologise - there's plenty of kittens and chocolate and blankets to go round while I work on chapter ten.
> 
> In all seriousness, thanks to everyone for reading - you're all wonderful!


	10. In Which Les Amis Break Into Angers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the plan is put into operation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!
> 
> right: please observe the following trigger warnings: guns, gun shot wounds, mentions of death of an animal, also character death - though I solemnly promise its not Enjolras or Grantaire.

“Joly’s contact came good with the ambulance. He left with Boss about forty minutes ago.” 

Grantaire sat at the table in the kitchen of their safe house, six miles outside Angers. Laid out in front of him were the pieces of two Sig Sauer P226 handguns as Grantaire executed his pre-job routine of stripping down and cleaning each of his weapons in turn. On his right, all eight of Jehan’s blades lay gleaming and polished. On his left, a modified Beretta M9 waited its turn.

Eponine rubbed her eyes. She was exhausted. There were four hours before they needed to leave. Her body wanted to sleep but she needed to debrief with Grantaire first. She shouldn’t be worried about this; Grantaire was clearly in full professional mode, his face calm and composed, eyes pin-point focused on the task at hand.

“Grantaire –” she started, trying to work out the best way to broach this. Feuilly was leaning against the kitchen counter in a position reminiscent to where he had stood throughout the interviews that afternoon. He, too, wore a closed expression. 

Grantaire sighed, beginning to piece one of the guns back together, using his attention to detail as an excuse not to look up at Eponine. She found she didn’t have the heart to call him on it. 

“Just give me the facts,” he said, voice steady, as though he was talking about any other job.

Eponine couldn’t imagine how Grantaire felt right now. She had seen Enjolras that very afternoon with her own eyes and she still had trouble believing that this was all real. She rubbed her eyes again, willing her brain to get into the game.

“You spoke to him?” Grantaire prompted, his fingers working methodically and with practise. He could probably assemble that thing with his eyes closed.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Numbers?” Eponine paused just long enough for Grantaire to huff in annoyance.

“He said overall eight, but you know Enjolras…” Grantaire pursed his lips as he began to reassemble the second Sig. “Including a seven for his right leg.”

Grantaire snapped the final piece of the weapon together and laid it down on the table before turning to look where Feuilly was resting on the counter. 

“What did you think?” Grantaire asked. Feuilly tipped his head to one side as he considered his answer.

“He walked in and out without difficulty, so if he does have an injury it doesn’t cause him short term mobility problems.” Feuilly’s eyes flashed to Eponine, pausing slightly before continuing. “You should know, he has a scar.” Feuilly swallowed and Eponine cringed. Grantaire looked at him blankly. “On his neck,” Feuilly clarified.

“Has someone cut him?” Grantaire looked over to Eponine in confusion, as though asking her if this was relevant. Technically it wasn’t. A scar was a scar and it was unlikely to cause them issues with regards to their mission. However, she understood why Feuilly brought it up. Grantaire had never been distracted by anything on a mission, his head had always been thoroughly on the matter at hand. However, none of those jobs had ever involved Enjolras before. Feuilly was right to give him a heads-up.

“I don’t think so,” she replied carefully. “It’s more like –” She looked back at Feuilly as though hoping he could supply her with the right words. Instead, the man looked like he severely regretted starting this conversation in the first place.

“Fuck’s sake, one of you spit it out!” Grantaire snapped. Eponine sighed heavily before answering him.

“It looks like someone strung him up.” 

Silence sat heavy in the little kitchen. Eponine wasn’t quite sure what she expected Grantaire to do. He had always been an unknown quantity. She had been in the room when Combeferre broke the news about Enjolras’s death and that had been terrifying enough because she had expected Grantaire to lose that famous temper of his; but far more horrifying had been his silence, followed by his stiff nod. 

When he walked out after recovering, no one had really known what to do. The three people who knew Grantaire the best were dead and Feuilly wasn’t prepared to put any bets on what Grantaire would and wouldn’t do without Enjolras. Part of her had wondered whether he would end up at the bottom of the Seine. In the end she supposed she shouldn’t have been worried, and that really, Grantaire’s response of killing as many people as possible shouldn’t have comes as a surprise. 

Now he looked at her with steady brown eyes, as calm as she had ever seen him. Then he froze and before she had a chance to ask him what was wrong she heard it for herself. The gate at the end of the pathway at the front of the house creaked.

Grantaire held up a single finger, signalling them to stay put. He left the guns where they were, useless in their current condition, choosing instead two of Jehan’s blades before slipping into the hallway. Eponine reached down to her boot for the blade she kept there, aware that Feuilly was now standing, ready to draw his gun if needs be.

She strained to hear, the overwhelming silence of the house suddenly oppressive. She wasn’t quite sure if she imagined the sound of the front door opening, but then there was a scuffle and a shout. She leapt out of her chair, piling into the hallway, Feuilly hot on her heels.

“Fuck’s sake, Courf!” Grantaire spat, getting up from where he had Courfeyrac pinned to the carpet, sheathing the knife that had recently been pressed to his friend’s throat. “I could have killed you.”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” the man wheezed, struggling to get to his knees, the shock of the impact having knocked the air from his lungs. “I’d have given a password if you’d waited one fucking second.”

“Yes, well,” Feuilly held out his hand to help Courfeyrac up off the floor. “We didn’t know you were coming. Shouldn’t you be in Belgium?”

“Has something gone wrong? What happened?” Eponine spoke now, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were supposed to meet them in Couvin; it was the central meeting place for everyone. Currently Courfeyrac was about as far away from Couvin as it was possible to be in the context of this particular job.

“Everything is fine. We made it to Couvin, no problem at all,” Courfeyrac allayed their fears, instead unbuttoning his coat and extracting a thick envelope from his inside pocket.

“We thought you might want these. I tried to get to you before you left this morning but I just missed you so I took the train.” He handed the envelope to Grantaire who quickly opened it, taking out the papers and flicking through them quickly.

“Fuck!” he exhaled, eyes roaming over the documents. “You took these on public transport?” He turned round, heading for the kitchen, folding them out across the work surfaces. Courfeyrac grinned.

“Well I thought they might come in useful,” he turned to Eponine and Feuilly. “It’s everything Valjean had on Angers.”

It’s not a huge amount, but what it lacked in quantity it more than made up for in value. There were surveillance photos, a few scribbled descriptions of guard rotas and a basic sketch of ground layout. Quickly, Eponine and Feuilly pointed out the buildings they had been to earlier that day. They could see that the compound wasn’t that large, but that it carried the appearance of it by way of the trees and the fact that it was largely set diagonally rather than in a rectangle. 

As they eyed up likely suspects for Ward 7, they quickly discounted the perimeter buildings using a combination of the ground sketches and photographs from the same set that captured Enjolras’s arrival. Clearly they were staff housing and were unlikely to house dangerous inmates. 

Grantaire favoured one of the three buildings in the centre of the compound. You were unlikely to keep your most precious possessions nearest the walls or the door. He pulled out a battered notebook from one of the pockets of his trenchcoat, snapping back the elastic band holding it together and quickly jotting down some notes. Sensing that Grantaire was likely to be distracted for the foreseeable future, Feuilly took the opportunity to fill in Courfeyrac on the events of the morning.

“Marius is here,” Eponine indicated the block just off from the main gate. “Standard ward. They’re kept there for an initial programme of three months before being filtered off.”

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac looked up hopefully. 

“The mysterious Ward Seven.” Feuilly waved a hand hopelessly over the map. It wasn’t as though they expected there to be labels on every building. But time would be of the essence and with three possible buildings to turn upside down there was a lot of room for error and every likelihood of a bad situation escalating.

Eponine checked her watch.

“Right. Wake me up in one hundred and thirty-eight minutes.” With that, she headed for the bedrooms upstairs.

+

Eponine tried not to fiddle with the paperwork too much as the van drove back up the dirt track towards Angers for the second time that day. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening and the light was fading, the headlamps of the van casting an eerie glow over the trees either side of the road.

“If they so much as twitch,” Feuilly muttered distractedly, more to himself. It had been agreed that they would try to get in without raising too much suspicion, waving papers in the hope of convincing the staff that they had another inmate for them. Grantaire had not been impressed with the idea at all, it was far too sloppy and subtle for his liking. He would have preferred to just put a bullet between the eyes of each guard and be done with it. As they approached the first gate, Eponine was beginning to agree.

To her surprise, the guy on the gate didn’t even stop them, but raised the barrier and waved them through. Eponine nodded at him as they passed, getting a good look at him. She didn’t recognise him so it was likely there had been a change of shift, something that could work in their favour. Nevertheless, alarm bells were ringing in her head. _It shouldn’t be this easy._

“Do they know we’re coming?” Feuilly muttered under his breath. Eponine wasn’t sure. She wished she could communicate with Grantaire and Courf but there was no door linking the cab with the back of the van. They continued on to the second check point.

This one was more efficient. They frowned at the van’s approach, hand raised to bring them to a stop before approaching the window and enquiring about their purpose.

“I was here earlier,” Eponine explained, putting on her very best embarrassed face. “I accidentally left my briefcase. I was half way to Reims when I realised it was missing and my boss will kill me if I go back without it.”

The guard didn’t look too impressed with this story. They wondered away, going to talk to someone inside the hut. Eponine swallowed, forcing herself to sit still, leaning back in her chair so that if some “extra persuasion” did suddenly become necessary, then Feuilly would have a clean shot. Eventually, the guard returned.

“Papers?” They demanded. Eponine handed them over, the guard going through them like a hawk. Eventually she handed them back. Then, standing away from the window, she patted the bonnet and whistled. Eponine let out the breath she was holding as they drove through. Just the dog handlers to go and they would be inside.

“You do realise the problems are never with the getting in?” Feuilly glanced over to her. Eponine huffed, smiling in spite of herself.

It took a bit more to persuade the guards at the final check point to let them through. They went over and over Eponine’s paperwork, not only her ID but also everything else she had relating to the van and the sweeps held that afternoon. They were obviously unhappy. 

Eponine was delighted. This was what she did best. She drew herself up to her full height, staring round at the group, picking her first victim carefully.

“You, there, what’s your name?” she snapped, taking a notebook out of her breast pocket. The uniform she picked on stared at her for a moment.

“Broadbent, ma’am,” he almost squeaked in reply. 

“Broadbent,” Eponine repeated, writing it down in her book. “And you?” she turned to the uniform next to Broadbent who flushed purple, not quite so quick to respond as their colleague.

“And just what do you mean by writing our names down in a book?” the uniform spluttered. Eponine gave them her sweetest smile.

“So that when my Director asks why I’ve returned without my briefcase I can tell them exactly who it was who was so officious in the execution of their duties that they would rather their name go in a book than open a gate.”

There was an exchange of looks. After a few moments of further discussion, the wrought-iron gates were opened and they drove inside. Feuilly headed towards the same building as before only this time there wasn’t a team waiting, only the Admin from this morning looking somewhat confused. Eponine shook her head. It was a rookie mistake on the Admin’s part but it would make their job a little easier. She fixed her smile and stepped out of the van.

“Hello, again,” the Admin greeted, eyebrow raised. 

The shot, when it came, sounded like a sneeze. Eponine didn’t even flinch as the Admin dropped to the ground. Feuilly quickly pocketed his weapon before stepping round to open the back of the van in order to release Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Meanwhile, Eponine searched the Admin’s body, glancing round as she rifled through pockets to make sure they were unobserved.

Having extracted the Admin’s keys and ID, Eponine stood back, letting Feuilly and R pick the body up and deposit it in the back of the van, out of sight. Then all four of them headed into the main building.

+

Marius lay face down on the floor of his cell, legs positioned exactly as Grantaire had showed him and he waited, counting to one hundred over and over again in his head. He stilled as he felt more than heard footsteps outside his room, vibrating through the linoleum floor. He saw the flash of torch reflecting off the opposite wall through the observation window. _This was it_.

_“Wait until they’re practically on top of you,” Grantaire’s words echoed inside his head. “Then don’t even give them a chance to realise you’ve moved. Bring them down and make sure they stay down.”_

Keys rattled in the lock and he heard the door open, fast footsteps striding towards him, the muttered curses of the night warden. When the hand landed on his shoulder, Marius twisted suddenly, scissoring his legs and knocking the warden off balance. It had taken him most of the weekend to perfect the move and he had the aching legs to prove it. However, it was entirely worth it when, letting out a cry of surprise, the guard or warden or whoever it was hit the deck hard. Marius reached out, grabbing the first thing that came to his possession and swung it. Only later did he realise it was the warden’s torch.

Standing back, breathing hard, Marius stared at the apparently lifeless body on the floor. He recognised that it was the head of the ward, which explained why no one else had come to see what all the noise was about. Dropping to his knees, he patted along at the waistband for keys and cuffs, feeling a little comforted to hear the jagged breathing of the unconscious man. He rolled the guy on his side so he wouldn’t choke if he threw up, cuffing his hands. Checking the corridor first to make sure it was empty, he slipped out of his room, locking the door behind him.

Success! He took a moment to breath, to let the adrenaline settle a little in his veins, before making his next move.

Enjolras was in Ward Seven so that was where Marius needed to be. He would look for the others on his way there. _Maybe_ , he thought, _maybe he could get to Enjolras and free him before the others arrived and then they could just go?_

Marius considered for a moment, chewing his thumb. Staying put didn’t seem like a good idea. He didn’t know if there was a security guard or other staff who did night patrols and he didn’t fancy being chanced upon with only a torch for a weapon. Having said that, he didn’t know where Ward 7 was. Pondering the problem, his eye fell upon the door immediately opposite his. He knew that it was the room belonging to one of the guys who had spoken to him that afternoon, warning him about Ward 7.

Before he really thought it through, he fished through the keys, trying three before finding the right one for the lock. As he opened the door, the figure on the bed shot up sideways, shielding his eyes from the torch to see who was coming in his room.

“Sweet fuck!” the guy exclaimed, his face the picture of horror. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I need you to tell me how to get to Ward 7,” Marius half-whispered. The guy on the bed looked like he was about to explode.

“Are you out of your mind? Where the hell is the warden? What did you _do_?!”

“He’s locked in my room,” Marius replied patiently. “You don’t have to worry, my friends –”

“I don’t want to know,” the guy snapped, cutting him off. “Holy fuck, you’re going to get us shot. Get the fuck out of my room. You want to die, that’s your own damn business, there’s no need to bring the rest of us down with you.”

Marius felt a surge of annoyance. He couldn’t understand the attitude being displayed here, it was so alien to him. None of Les Amis would even dream of behaving in such a manner.

“Just tell me how to get to Ward 7 and I’ll be out of your hair,” he persisted. The guy considered for a few seconds before telling him. Then Marius left, as promised, even locking the door behind him.

As Marius exited the ward, his pulse picked up. This wasn’t the first time he’d snuck around a strange building in the dark, but usually he had either a weapon or a companion with him. This time he had neither. Every sound was amplified, his breathing sounding terrible loud to his own ears, each footstep like that of a crashing giant.

_Down the stairwell, across the yard, the grey building, through the gate, down the corridor…_

The cold air almost took his breath away as he stepped outside. He was still in the scrubs issued to him on arrival, his feet clad in plimsolls. Folding his arms around himself, he stepped quickly into the yard, keeping close against the wall in the shadows, ears and eyes wide open. Hearing footsteps, he pressed himself flat against the wall, holding his breath until whoever it was had passed.

The worst bit was crossing the yard, leaving the safety of the shadows and entering open space. His heart thumped loudly in his chest but there was nothing he could really do about that. Counting to ten, he checked to his left and right one last time before running has fast as he could across to the opposite building, his rubber soles sounding awfully loud in the dark.

Marius leant against the wall, trying to simultaneously catch and hold his breath. He cast his eye around the yard, knowing the grey building was supposed to be here somewhere, but in the poor light everything looked grey. Knowing that he couldn’t very well stay where he was, he shuffled along the wall, looking for any kind of clue. Just as he decided to duck into the first door he came across, he spotted what must be the grey building in question. It was set away from the others, nearly in the centre of the compound. Marius nearly had a heart attack right there and then because just at that moment, two uniforms with a dog rounded the corner on the other side of the complex. He shrank back against the wall, feeling horrendously exposed. If the dog caught his scent he would be done for. They were close enough for him to hear their voices. The dog whined, pulling a little bit, but the men ignored it, their tones angry and scolding as they pulled back on the leash. Eventually they turned the corner and were gone. Marius ran, hurtling towards the door of the grey building. He fumbled with the lock, the keys suddenly heavy in his shaking hands. Finally the lock shot back and he pushed the door open, hurrying inside and closing it again, sagging against the door in relief.

After this he was going to retire. He would find a nice house somewhere on the coast and live a quiet life; and if Courfeyrac or Combeferre or anyone else came to visit for any other purpose than tea and reliving the good times then they could, well, they could just go away, is what they could do.

There was a stairwell in front of him. He padded up the stairs to the first floor, taking courage as he spotted the gate at the far end. _Nearly there_.

White light from outside shone through the barred windows, reflecting off the corridor floor, lighting his way. Just the gate and a corridor and then…

As Marius rounded the corner he collided heavily with someone coming the other way. As he stumbled backwards, he realised with horror that it wasn’t Grantaire, or Eponine or anyone like that. It was a uniform who was quickly recovering from the shock of bumping into someone in the corridor in the middle of the night. Marius did the only thing he could think of; he barrelled into them, rugby tackling them and sending them sprawling to the floor. 

The uniform grunted on impact, and Marius pressed his advantage by elbowing the man sharply in the breast bone. But then a fist connected with his jaw and he rolled over. Before he could properly recover, hands curled round his neck, constricting his throat. Instinctively he grabbed the wrists, pressing his nails tight into the flesh, before recovering his wits and driving his knee up hard and sharp, catching the man between his thighs, causing him to let Marius go with a groan. 

Before Marius could decide what to do next, there was the most unbelievable amount of pain in his arm, as though he had been burnt, or perhaps electrocuted, followed by an explosion of sound. Or maybe the sound happened before, or at the same time, he couldn’t really tell. His whole world shrunk down to the sensation of pain, his legs giving out beneath him in shock. It was a sensation like no other, except that it felt far too familiar. 

Marius had been shot.

Clamping his hand over the wound just above his elbow, Marius felt the hot stickiness of blood between his fingers.

_Oh god, oh god, not again._

He needed to move, he needed to think. He couldn’t die here, not like this. Not now. Not when he was so close. Enjolras was just along this corridor, he knew it. 

The uniform stood above him, panting hard, gun in his hand, raised and ready to deliver the final coup de grâce. With the muzzle pressed against his forehead, Marius forced himself to keep his eyes open, not entirely sure what he expected to see as he prepared for oblivion. He heard the shot and he couldn’t help but flinch, his whole body tensing, waiting for that final moment, but it never came. Instead, the uniform swayed on his feet before dropping to the floor. Marius stared at him dumbly.

+

“Jesus fuck, Marius, what the hell!” Grantaire sank down beside Marius on the corridor floor, instantly clamping his hand over Marius’s and the gunshot wound.

After their arrival, he along with Eponine, Courfeyrac and Feuilly had retreated to the Admin’s office where Eponine had proceeded to turn the whole place over. She handed Courfeyrac as many documents as she could find, knowing that the more physical evidence they had, the easier it would be once they returned to Belgium and attempted to blow the lid off this thing.

Feuilly and Grantaire decided to leave them to it, Feuilly going in search of Marius while Grantaire decided to try his luck with Ward 7. After making his way round the eastern perimeter of the compound, he spotted Marius sneaking along a wall in the shadows. Before he could attract the attention of his friend, the uniforms with the dog had strolled into view. The two uniforms were dead before they even had a chance to process the fact that there was a man in front of them. As much as he hated to do it, Grantaire dispatched the dog too, knowing it would only cause chaos to have a dog running loose.

When he looked for Marius again, it was to just catch sight of him disappearing inside the grey building. He had followed with a lot more caution than Marius had displayed, but at the sound of a shot he had broken into a run.

Grantaire took hold of Marius’s injured arm, elevating it so the wound was above Marius’s heart.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “raise it up for me.”

Marius cried out, the sound echoing loudly. Grantaire understood that the man probably couldn’t help it. He knew from personal experience that being shot was no picnic. He quickly drew one of his smaller knives from its sheath.

“Here,” he held it up. “Open up. You can bite down on this.” Marius took the handle between his teeth. The next time Grantaire manipulated his injured arm, he hissed round it rather than crying out.

“You’ll live.” Grantaire passed his verdict. “There’s no exit wound. Joly will get it out of you, no problems. I’ll strap it up which will keep the blood loss to a minimum.” Grantaire rooted inside his coat, pulling out a small square package. Seeing Marius’s incredulous look he quirked a smile.

“What? You think I don’t carry a first aid kit? What do you take me for? You have met Joly, right?” he chuckled quietly, quickly strapping Marius up with deft and capable fingers before constructing a sling out of a triangular bandage. Marius hissed as he curled his arm in on itself. Grantaire reclaimed the knife set between his teeth,

“Thank you,” Marius groaned. Grantaire shot him a sympathetic look.

“I’d love to give you something for the pain, but I need you alert for this,” he advised, tone regretful. Marius nodded. It was enough for now just to be immobilised. Something about holding his arm close to him made it feel slightly better.

“Now, would I be right in thinking this is ward 7?”

“So I believe,” Marius groaned, shuffling slightly to rest his back against the corridor wall. He just wanted to sleep, or at least be allowed to lie still for a bit. Grantaire sniffed in contemplation.

“If I leave you here with a gun, are you going to be ok? I didn’t have a chance to lock the door behind me when I came in.”

“I’ll be fine,” Marius wheezed, his head still spinning. Grantaire gave him a disbelieving look, before holding out his Beretta.

“This is nice and noisy. Just aim and fire. Think you can handle that?”

Marius reached out, accepting the gun. It felt heavy and clumsy in his fingers.

“I have fired a gun before,” he replied, his voice sounding more bitter than probably he intended it to be, but Grantaire cut him some slack.

“Shoot first, apologise later,” he instructed, grabbing the set of keys off the uniform’s lifeless body on the floor. He headed off down the corridor, leaving Marius against the wall.

Grantaire wasn’t expecting there to be anyone else, not on this level at least. His own Sig had a silencer on it, but he’d heard that other shot from the bottom of the stairs. If there was anyone else in that building then they weren’t at all fussed or attracted to the sound of gun fire. All the same, he reasoned, no need to go barging around like Pontmercy.

As he slowly made his way down the corridor, he peered through the observation window of each room. They were all empty along this bit, but up ahead, the corridor curved round to the right. Lying on his belly, he extracted a compact mirror from one of his many pockets and used it to look round the corner, hoping that if there was someone else round there, they wouldn’t think to check for signs of movement at floor level. As it was, the corridor was empty. He stood back up, and walked confidently into the final section of the wing.

Grantaire stopped breathing. The first three rooms were empty, but the last room was not. Enjolras stood at the observation window, pressed up against the glass and staring right at him.

“Fuck.” Grantaire wiped his forehead with his sleeve. In two strides he was at the glass, raising his right hand, matching it over Enjolras’s left hand, as though they could touch through it. For a moment, he rested his forehead against the window. He could see their combined breath clouding the glass from each side. It was astounding; Enjolras’s breath from Enjolras’s lungs.

It was as if the volume and the colour of his life had suddenly been switched to maximum. He had been barely existing and now, now he was standing here and it was real. Enjolras was real, Enjolras wasn’t dead. He’d been trying not to think about it, trying not to get his hopes up. He had buried everything very deep, because if you expected nothing you couldn’t possibly be disappointed.

Letting Feuilly drag him to this point had been a massive leap of faith in itself, faith that Grantaire didn’t usually throw about. But this was Enjolras and his faith in Enjolras was infinite.

He stood back from the glass, not daring to look up, staring instead at the keys in his shaking hands. It seemed to take forever to find the right fucking key because it was never the first key you tried, no matter how much you studied them, looking for clues, but finally the lock turned and the door opened and then, oh fuck, _then_.

Then he was holding Enjolras so fucking tight and it was as if the world had suddenly righted itself once more. Enjolras, his Enjolras, was in his arms and they were just standing there, breathing together, two hearts keeping time and Grantaire forgot everything, even the urgency of the situation because for the first time in a long time he was whole once more.

Slowly he pulled back, resting their foreheads together. Then, carefully, he brought his hands up to that oh-so familiar face, tracing the skin beneath his fingers, his ruined right hand brushing over Enjolras’s left cheek. Familiar blue eyes burned into him and he could feel Enjolras shaking beneath his touch.

“Enjolras,” he murmured, tasting the word on his tongue properly for the first time in two years. The man closed his eyes, leaning into Grantaire’s touch. R was unable to suppress the soft whimper that escaped him. Enjolras opened his eyes, a determined look upon his face.

“What’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still with me? If the comments are to be believed my death count is higher than R's.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you to everyone for your support, especially my beta, Sarah.
> 
> The Sig Sauer P226 is a handgun favoured by the SAS especially with undercover work. With a silencer it sounds like a champagne cork or a loud sneeze. The Beretta is less subtle, a more "blow the other guy into the next world loudly" model used by the American army. And if I disappear mysteriously one day its because my google search history has finally drawn the unwanted attention of an already suspicious government :-p


	11. In Which Everyone Heads For The Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've found Enjolras. All they need to do now is get out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!  
> ok, so more warnings for this chapter; triggers for blood, gunshot wounds and injuries

Of course Enjolras had heard the sound of the gunshot; it had echoed loudly through the corridors and rattled the glass of the observation window. He leapt out of bed where he had been lying under the duvet, giving a good show of reading a book for whenever the night warden passed his room. Now he pulled on his plimsolls and crossed over to the window, twisting his head flat to try to see down to the end of the corridor.

The Isolation block was, as far as he was aware, empty at the moment, apart from himself and the permanent member of staff patrolling outside his room. The staff didn’t like Enjolras mingling with other patients as he tended to “disrupt their recovery” if he was put in a general ward. His last room had been awful; plain, with all four walls a different length and a sloping roof, the geometry of which kept him up at night. The staff seemed to find this hilarious.

This room, he didn’t mind so much. The observation window looked out onto an actual window to the outside world. He supposed some inmates would have found this to be a cruel taunt, seeing the sky every day through many layers of glass. But to Enjolras it was proof that France existed outside these walls.

Every forty-five minutes or so, the warden would leave his station, look in on Enjolras and then go for a little walk. It depended on the member of staff as to how long these sojourns took. The guy on tonight was a smoker and used to step out for some “fresh air” for about fifteen minutes.

Enjolras’s mind ran through a hundred possibilities, the first one being that the shot had been loud which meant that it was unlikely to be one of Les Amis. Grantaire always used a silencer and Eponine had said R was with her and Feuilly. He couldn’t imagine anyone else coming for him.

The fact remained that a shot had been fired and then there was nothing. He stood, waiting, straining to hear anything further through the glass. He thought he heard some faint sounds but he couldn’t be certain. It was entirely possible that his brain was so desperate to hear something, anything, that he created those sounds to please himself. Enjolras counted slowly to one hundred, then up to two hundred. Still nothing.

He was about to step away from the glass when movement caught his attention. 

Grantaire stared at him, and then it was just a pane of glass separating them and still Enjolras couldn’t move. If he closed his eyes he could feel the warmth of Grantaire’s hand against his, could hear the man’s heartbeat.

Grantaire was alive, Grantaire was here, just for him. The door opened and it was all he could do not to just throw himself into the man’s arms. He wanted to consume and be consumed. It felt as though he had been asleep for one hundred years and only now all his senses were finally awakening. As he buried himself in Grantaire’s neck, he drew a deep, cleansing breath, pulling that warm, familiar scent go deep into his lungs.

When they stood, forehead to forehead, Grantaire’s hands upon his face, listening to their shuddering breaths as they shared oxygen for the first time in far too long, Enjolras knew he was home. 

“What’s the plan?” 

Grantaire grinned at him and oh, he had missed this! The way Grantaire’s scar twisted when his smile reached his eyes. In the half light of the corridor, Enjolras could make out dark shadows, and Grantaire’s jaw and cheekbones looked more defined, as though the man had lost weight or been ill.

Grantaire’s hands were still framing his face and Enjolras’s skin tingled beneath their touch. He brought his own up, running his thumbs over the back of Grantaire’s hands, which was when he realised something was wrong, that the hand was twisted and damaged with scar tissue and that his little finger was missing. Just at that moment Grantaire moved, trying to pull away, but Enjolras wouldn’t let him. He folded Grantaire’s right hand into his own, just firm enough that Grantaire could have yanked away if he really wanted to, but instead the man relaxed at the tender touch.

It broke Enjolras’s heart that someone had hurt Grantaire in such a way, had damaged him thus, but the spark of anger only fuelled the flame already burning. Fixing Grantaire with a determined look, he brought the hand up to his mouth, kissing it; first the knuckle of the index finger, then the middle finger, and finally the ring finger, before releasing the hand entirely.

There was a moment of silence while the two regarded each other, before Grantaire pulled them back together, gripping Enjolras’s scrubs while the other knotted his hands on the lapels of Grantaire’s trenchcoat. The kiss they shared was short, but it echoed the desperate need each held of the other. Enjolras sighed, feeling his whole body light up. Grantaire still tasted the same.

When they stood apart once more, Grantaire checked his watch.

“We have over fifteen minutes,” he said, voice rough. “Give me numbers.” Granataire’s voice was clipped, his tone professional and his glance expectant. Enjolras huffed in annoyance. 

“No, I’m fine, really, we can just –” Enjolras tried to sidestep the issue. Surely the sooner they were gone, the better. He assumed the night duty warden had been dealt with but that didn’t mean other members of staff might not suddenly appear unexpectedly. It would be typical if someone ended up being sent to Isolation just as a break-out was in progress.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire’s voice was low and tender as he ran his index finger down Enjolras’s jaw bone, resting his thumb on the man’s chin. Instantly Enjolras relaxed, closing his eyes, his touch-starved body shivering under such gentle attention.

“We have time,” Grantaire assured him while Enjolras tried to remember to breathe. “Look, I’m going to get us out of here but in order to do that I’m going to need you to co-operate with me. So give me numbers.”

Enjolras wasn’t used to all this. Whenever jobs like these had gone down in the past, he had run the operations with Combeferre behind the scenes, planning and organising and constructing the message. He and Grantaire had discovered very early on in their relationship that this was more Grantaire’s field. He and Grantaire hadn’t worked together in years, the other man always preferring to go on jobs alone or with Prouvaire. 

“Has Jehan got the door?” Enjolras asked, looking over Grantaire’s shoulder towards the end of the corridor. It seemed a sensible question, a professional question, to try to get his grip back on the situation. Grantaire blinked at him for a moment.

“No,” Grantaire replied, his voice still low. “No, I’ve got Ep and Feuilly and Courf with me, and,” suddenly he jerked round, as though suddenly remembering something important. “Oh shit, Marius.”

He turned back, looking Enjolras up and down. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.

“We need to go. So is there anything in that room of yours that’s remotely useful?”

“No,” Enjolras replied with confidence. He wanted no memento, no keepsake. He carried enough of those in the scars on his skin.

“Then give me numbers, Enjolras.” Grantaire spoke with an edge of frustration, like a parent giving their troublesome child a final warning. Enjolras sighed.

“In all honesty, I’m probably a seven with a high amount of adrenaline upping that to a nine,” he replied, a little bit petulantly, and Grantaire crooked a smile at him. 

“Can you run?” Grantaire gave him a serious penetrating look, as though trying to delve into his mind for the truth.

“Probably not for long periods,” Enjolras admitted, knowing how angry Grantaire would be if he said yes before finding out the truth the hard way when it really mattered.

“That’s not a problem,” Grantaire replied, appreciating Enjolras’s honesty. It had never been the man’s strong point to admit to weakness of any kind. He held out his left hand which Enjolras took with a smile. They shared one final hug that said everything they didn’t quite have time to vocalise right now before setting off down the corridor.

Enjolras hung back, letting Grantaire go first. He moved quietly along the wall, his boot-clad feet hardly making a sound. As they rounded another corner, Enjolras’s eye was drawn to the dead warden making a mess on the floor. He only realised that someone else was there when the huddled shape next to the wall spoke his name.

Marius looked up at Enjolras with wide eyes, while Grantaire crouched down beside him. It was at that point Enjolras realised Marius was injured. His freckled face was glowing pale in the darkness and he shook visibly. 

“You think you can stand?” R asked Marius, voice low and firm. Marius was still staring at Enjolras as if he could hardly believe his eyes. Enjolras stared back, realising that Marius, too, was also in scrubs. He opened his mouth to ask a question, when Grantaire brought the man’s attention back to him.

“Marius,” he prompted, “can you stand? Give me numbers.”

Enjolras couldn’t stop the small smile that broke across his face. Surely Grantaire must be tired of asking that question. Marius turned his head, looking at R as though he had three heads.

“Right arm, minus one hundred thousand,” Marius finally spoke, and his voice sounded completely incredulous that Grantaire would ask such a stupid question. “Everywhere else, ten.”

Grantaire chuckled, peeling the Beretta out of Marius’s hand before helping him to his feet. He passed the gun to Enjolras who accepted it, turning it over in his fingers, getting used to feeling the grip of such a weapon once more.

“I warn you both now, there may be running,” Grantaire looked at them with a very serious expression on his face. Both men nodded, Marius wincing, his hand pressed to his arm, Enjolras looking particularly determined.

“How are you planning on getting out?” Enjolras asked. He had every faith in Grantaire and there was obviously an awful lot going on here but all the same, Enjolras had tried to escape a couple of times before. He could get so far, but the real problem was the perimeters and the check points. Grantaire grinned, looking at his watch again.

“Come on,” he said, by way of an answer. He went first, followed by Marius who was trying to hold his entire upper body as still as possible. Enjolras brought up the rear, the Beretta feeling heavy but at home in his hands.

They moved down through the building and down the stairs until they stood by the door out into the compound.

“We have five minutes to liaise with the others. When we get out of here turn immediately to your left and head for the shadows as quickly as you can. I’ll join you by the wall. Don’t stop, don’t look round, don’t wait for me,” he seemed to be speaking exclusively to Enjolras, and the man felt his cheeks burn. He attempted to glare at Grantaire, as though mortally offended that he would even dream Enjolras would do anything so stupid. But Grantaire raised a challenging eyebrow before turning to Marius, continuing with his instructions.

“There’s a van. All three of us are getting in the back. I should warn you now, it’s going to be messy back there but hopefully we won’t be in there long.” Enjolras wrinkled his nose. Messy probably meant a dead body and knowing R the floor of the van would likely be awash with blood. He sighed, wondering why death was such a grubby affair. Grantaire seemed to read his thoughts, giving him an amused smirk.

“What happens in five minutes?” Enjolras couldn’t help but ask. Grantaire’s face lit up with the most serene smile.

“There’s going to be a diversion,” he smirked, eyes bright with anticipation. “I can promise you now the attention of the entire compound will be elsewhere. It should buy us a few hours before they realise you’re missing.”

Grantaire turned back to the door, giving it a hard look as though trying to see through it. Then, taking a deep breath, he carefully turned the handle and pulled it open just enough to peer out through the crack.

Evidently no other patrol had stumbled across the dead bodies lying around the corner. Grantaire shook his head; as much as he was grateful for their apparent laziness, it seemed extraordinarily arrogant to have such lax security inside the compound, relying entirely on the significantly tighter precautions taken outside the barbed wire.

He inclined his head at Marius, indicating for him to go first. Enjolras wanted to protest but one look from Grantaire silenced him. This was obviously going to be an Enjolras sandwich, with Grantaire bringing up the rear so, by default, Marius had to go first. Marius had obviously picked up on that quicker than Enjolras as he went first without complaint. 

Even though he was clearly in pain, he moved quickly into the night. Enjolras felt a stab of surprise. He hadn’t really known much about the kid that Courfeyrac had somehow adopted so many years before. Combeferre seemed to like him, despite initial reservations, and he hadn’t gotten in the way. He had even proved to be quite useful on occasions, and had always tried to be helpful and enthusiastic, even if he was a bit green around the edges.

But obviously two years had changed quite a lot. He didn’t understand why Marius should be dressed in scrubs, but he could tell Marius looked far too healthy to have been here all that time. He felt an unfamiliar rush of gratitude to the young man who would do so much for him when, really, they had barely spoken to one another.

“I’m right behind you,” Grantaire murmured, pressing a reassuring hand to the middle of his back. Enjolras felt Grantaire kiss his shoulder before he stepped out into the dark. His feet hardly made a sound as he jogged awkwardly across the courtyard, following the direction taken by Marius moments before. Eventually he found the wall, groping along it. He could hear Marius breathing hard in the dark.

“You ok?” Marius whispered. 

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice shaky and out of breath. “You?”

“Grantaire says I’ll live,” Marius replied, his tone rueful and Enjolras had to smile. He tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps but it was only Grantaire.

“Move,” the man hissed as he caught up with them. Marius immediately set off at a trot, Enjolras quick behind. They were in the shadows between two buildings which gave them extra cover, but if anyone came down either end, they would have nowhere to go. Marius slowed as he approached the end of the wall, looking uncertainly at Grantaire.

“Left, towards the black – oh never mind,” Enjolras sucked in, trying to make himself thinner as Grantaire pushed past, taking the lead. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire hissed again, and Enjolras could feel that weighty glare, even in the darkness. Feeling rather annoyed, he nonetheless swapped places with Marius so that he was in the middle once more. He would have preferred to stand his ground but he knew it really wasn’t the time. Grantaire knew what he was doing and what he was doing was getting them out alive. 

+

As Marius hurried down a tiny alleyway barely three feet wide, he wondered how much more of this he could take. He didn’t want to complain, and he understood the necessity of moving without being seen, but all the same he was feeling very dizzy and everything was beginning to hurt and go fuzzy round the edges.

“Still with me, Marius?” he heard Grantaire mutter in the darkness. He tried to answer but it ended up being a grunt. Just then, there was the most terrific noise and everything seemed to shake. He tried to brace himself against the wall, but even that was moving and he ended up falling to his knees as a blast of air rushed over him. He looked up to see the night sky glowing orange. Beside him, he heard Grantaire laugh.

“Was that -?” Enjolras enquired from somewhere on his left.

“A Bossuet special. There will probably be another in a minute. Combeferre told him to do the works,” Grantaire sounded gleeful.

Now there were other sounds filling up the night; angry shouts and running feet. Marius wondered if they were safe here. Almost in answer, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

“We need to get moving. I can see the van, but I don’t know where the others are. Enjolras?” Marius became aware of the man stepping forward. In the shadows he could just make out where they joined hands.

“I promise you, I am coming back. I promise.” Grantaire muttered, before pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s cheek.

“I know, my R,” Enjolras murmured in return, brushing his own lips to Grantaire’s forehead. Then the man was gone. The ground rumbled as another explosion rocked the air, this time from a slightly different direction. They could hear lights and whistles but nothing nearby.

They stood together silently, waiting for Grantaire to return. Marius would have liked to have said something, to ask something. Enjolras looked like he was drowning in the scrubs he wore, and the shaved head really didn’t suit their leader. Marius wanted to say how sorry he was but the words stuck in his throat.

“Marius?” He jumped a mile in the air as Feuilly suddenly appeared behind him. He swore loudly, before throwing his uninjured arm round his friend.

“I’ve been turning the compound upside down looking for you,” Feuilly sounded reproachful, but then he froze, spotting Enjolras standing nearby.

“Oh fuck,” Feuilly swore, squeezing past Marius. “Oh fuck, oh FUCK.”

They hugged tightly, Feuilly burying his face into his friend’s shoulder. Marius could just about make out what the man was saying.

“We thought you were dead. They told us you were dead. I’m so sorry,” he was saying, speaking quickly, half the words unrecognisable. Enjolras was speaking too, his voice thick and rough but Marius couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Ah, you’ve found Feuilly,” Grantaire reappeared with a grin on his face and instantly Feuilly broke away from Enjolras, reaching out to shake Grantaire’s hand. 

“Do you think we could save the group hug until we’re out of here?” Eponine’s dry voice filtered through, just as another of Bossuet’s bombs went off. There was a general consensus of agreement and the group rushed forward.

The van was twenty-five meters away. Grantaire instinctively moved to stand behind Enjolras, eyes everywhere, gun out and ready. Feuilly also had his weapon drawn and Marius felt a bit useless as he was hustled towards where Courfeyrac was holding the back doors of the van. Sure enough, there was a fair amount of blood on the floor.

“What did you do with it?” Grantaire looked over to Eponine and Courfeyrac. Evidently he had expected the owner of the blood to still be in situ.

“Put her back in her office,” Eponine replied, before spotting Marius, her face darkening. He found himself recoiling as she marched towards him.

“What the hell, Marius?” She gave him a frustrated look, reaching out towards his injured arm. Before he could answer, Grantaire stepped in.

“I’ve looked him over and patched him up. It’s not that bad,” he said, his voice dismissive. Eponine rolled her eyes.

“Just get in the damn van,” she instructed. Marius obeyed, climbing up inside. Behind him, he heard Courfeyrac and Enjolras embrace briefly, muttering to each other in low voices. Courf helped Enjolras climb in, following behind and sitting down opposite Marius, giving him a questioning smile. Last came Grantaire, slotting himself down opposite Enjolras. The van doors slammed.

They sat in a tense silence, waiting for the engine to start.

“Don’t worry about the check points,” Grantaire spoke. Marius glanced over at Enjolras whose jaw was tight, his fists clenched. It was hard to read the man. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but something else. An angry nervousness, an underlying energy that had him tapping his foot against the floor of the van.

They felt the van moving slowly and unsteadily. Marius held his breath.

+

The wrought-iron gates were unmanned, everyone having run off in the direction of the explosions and the fire that was now burning brightly behind them, flames licking up into the sky. Feuilly leapt out of the van, moving quickly to pull the gates open, trusting Eponine to cover him. He pulled the first gate open without issue. As he pulled the second one, he heard a shot ricochet off the wall beside him, coming from the direction of the outside. He dove behind the wall, heart thumping. 

He was still wearing his guard’s uniform but evidently whoever was firing at him didn’t care or had figured out that anyone going in the opposite direction of the fire was unlikely to be a government employee. He locked eyes with Eponine. If he wanted to get to the van, he was going to have to leave the safety of the wall. Eponine had a frustrated look on her face. He saw her shrug her shoulders, evidently unable to see his assailant.

Taking a deep breath, he made a run for it, reaching the van as two further shots rang out. He hurled himself into the cab, putting the van into gear. As they picked up speed, he held out his right hand. Eponine passed him a Beretta which he aimed out of the window towards the check point hut. He fired three shots at the hut; one at the door, and two at the wooden walls. It was unlikely he would hit anyone, but it would be enough to discourage anyone else from taking a shot at the van.

He looked over to where Eponine was clutching her own weapon, her face grim and determined. As the second checkpoint came into view, she leaned out of the window. The first shot hit one of the uniforms in the knee. He dropped immediately, letting out a howl of surprise. Instantly the others turned towards the van, reaching for their own weapons, but Eponine was too good. She picked them off easily, aiming for arms and legs rather than chest or head shots. Leave the killing to R; she preferred to maim first and only kill the stupid who didn’t take the hint.

They steamed through the barrier of the second check point, the wood fracturing pathetically against the bonnet of the van. Eponine checked her weapon as they made their way to the last check point.

As they approached this final hurdle, the gunfire started up once more, the bullets ricocheting off the front of the van. Eponine returned the fire, watching with satisfaction as at least three uniforms dropped to the ground. But then the windscreen shattered into a thousand pieces, glass filling the cab of the van. 

“Fuck, Ep!” Feuilly shouted out, covering his face with his hands. Reacting instinctively, Eponine made a grab for the wheel.

“Keep going, I have the wheel, don’t take your foot off the accelerator,” she shouted. They barrelled through the barrier and Eponine prayed that the shots she could hear being fired wouldn’t hit either Feuilly or herself. Then they were through and she could see the road up ahead. She turned the wheel, guiding the van to the right as they somehow made it onto the road.

“Ok, foot gently on the break, let’s bring this to a stop and I’ll drive,” Eponine tried to sound in control and reassuring, despite the fact that the angle was awkward as hell for two people to be driving a van and it was far from ideal to be stopping so close to danger.

“Fuck, I can’t see, Ep, I can’t see,” Feuilly’s voice was loud and filled with fear.

Eponine wasn’t panicking, she definitely wasn’t panicking as the van came to a juddering halt just yards outside the entrance to the Angers compound. The light from the fire threw eerie shadows on the road from the trees, and there was an angry hum in the air from the blaze behind them.

She darted round the van, pausing to throw open the back door.

“R, front, now!” she yelled, not waiting to see if he followed, running round to the driver’s door. Feuilly was trying to shuffle into the middle, to make room for Eponine to slot into his place. 

“I can’t see,” he mumbled, his bloodied hands held awkwardly in the air in front of him.

“Oh shit,” she heard R enter the cab through the driver’s side door. Feuilly’s face was cut to ribbons, his eyes clamped shut. She turned back to the road, putting the van in gear and setting off once more.

“How soon until we can get off the road?” R asked. She risked a glance over to them. R was holding Feuilly’s left hand, his right attempting to clean off the worst of the blood from his friend’s face.

“About twenty minutes,” she replied. 

They drove on into the darkness, only Feuilly’s small whimpers breaking up the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really very sorry - poor Feuilly!
> 
> All of you who have left kudos and comments are wonderful people - it's been an absolute delight to hear from you!  
> And of course, Enjolras doesn't know about Jehan or Bahorel yet *bites knuckles*


	12. In Which Everyone Tries To Get A Good Night's Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis lick their wounds back at the safe house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!
> 
> tw for night terrors, knives, medical procedures and blood - nothing too graphic

Eponine steered the van to the left, leaving the main road in favour of a dirt track barely wide enough for their vehicle. They were about five minutes from the liaison point where they were due to meet up with Joly. All being well, the others would already be there waiting for them. Eponine glanced at the clock on the dashboard to confirm that they were still on schedule.

They just needed to meet up with Joly and Bossuet, then they could transfer to the ambulance and one of their contacts could take the van and dump it somewhere. Eponine recited the plan over and over in her head to keep herself calm and focused on anything apart from what was happening in the seat next to her.

She knew that R was limited in what he could do for Feuilly right now. He was good at working in the field and that included basic triage, but bouncing around in a van was no place to be attempting to extract shards of glass from anywhere, let alone something so delicate as an eye.

Unable to stop herself, she glanced over to where Feuilly was slumped back in his seat, no longer making noise.

“It’s ok,” Grantaire reassured her gruffly. “I gave him the rest of my oral morphine.” 

Silence returned then, and for the first time since getting on the road, Eponine remembered the other people in the back of the van. Heaven only knows what they must be thinking, but she dare not stop to reassure them, not until they reached the rendezvous point. She knew that sooner or later word would get back to the main compound that a van had shot its way out of the complex. It wouldn’t take them long to organise vehicles to pursue them, though hopefully they would be so preoccupied with the fire that they wouldn’t discover Enjolras was missing for a few hours more.

“Joly is going to want to stop,” Grantaire muttered, almost to himself. Eponine sighed in frustration, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Well, we’re running to schedule right now,” she replied. “We’re due to spend time at the house for sleeping, eating and what-have-you. And Ferre always adds extra time into the schedule so hopefully Joly can work his magic and we can get back on the road without too much issue.”

She let out a sigh of relief as she spotted the ambulance waiting at the side of the road up ahead.

+

Eponine wasn’t sure what was worse; sitting outside the kitchen listening to the sound of Joly trying to remove glass from Feuilly’s eyes, or going upstairs to hear the sound of Grantaire removing a bullet from Marius’s arm through the bathroom door.

Courfeyrac sat on the floor opposite her, wincing every time Feuilly cried out. He was pale, his hands knotted on his knees, a determined look upon his face.

“Where’s Enjolras?” Eponine asked, as though realising for the first time that there should be more people. 

“Where do you think?” Courf shrugged, his tone more stressed than unkind. He gestured with his hands upwards. _Of course_. Enjolras had latched onto Grantaire as soon as the van had pulled over and they had all transferred to the ambulance. Their hands had remained entwined all the way to the safehouse. 

It was strange; before all this happened, Enjolras and Grantaire rarely gave off any indication of their complicated relationship in public. Enjolras moved in his own circles, usually with Combeferre and Courfeyrac by his side. Grantaire would be somewhere in the room, orbiting their chief almost subconsciously, but never actually beside him. Not like the way they clung to each other now. But then nothing like this situation had ever arisen before. 

“I’m going to call Ferre,” Eponine pulled herself off the floor. She needed to check in with their Guide, especially as Courf was here which meant that Combeferre had no one to reassure him that everything would be fine while he waited for news.

Sighing, she grabbed the timer on her way to the phone in the hallway. Calls that lasted less than 60 seconds were not charged or tracked. She swiftly dialled the number, setting the timer as the line connected.

“Talk to me,” Ferre’s voice was calm as it filtered down the line.

“Target acquired,” Eponine started off sure enough, her voice steady. “Stable seven, full status unknown, no visible cause for alarm.”

“Good. Everyone else?” She could hear the underlying tension to his question; evidently her voice had given away that not everything had gone as smoothly as it could have done. Ep took a deep breath, eye still on the timer. They had forty-five seconds before she had to terminate the call.

“Marius, GSW non-fatal right arm, R seeing to him now. Estimated five or six, full status unknown. Feuilly,” her voice cracked, but she forced herself to go on. “Feuilly, status unknown, injury to eyes - glass. Joly is working on him.”

“Estimate?” Combeferre was so calm, his voice was a lifeline. Eponine was a professional, she didn’t get upset in stressful situations and she’d been working undercover long enough to keep herself in check. But right at that moment, with Feuilly and his eyes full of glass and Marius with an arm full of lead, she couldn’t be more grateful to hear Ferre’s steady tone.

“He can walk,” she said, painfully conscious that she had only seconds left.

“Ok, keep me in the loop.”

And with that, Ferre was gone.

Eponine replaced the receiver, running a hand roughly over her face just to feel it against her skin. Looking up, she saw Courfeyrac give her a sympathetic smile. 

+

Eponine entered the bathroom without knocking. From the sound of it the worst was already over. Sure enough, Marius was perched on the tub, pale but smiling a dopey smile, while Grantaire angled him under the light so he could stitch him up. The bullet lay in a bowl on the counter.

“I spoke to Ferre,” she spoke, with preamble. Grantaire grunted but otherwise didn’t move. Enjolras, standing off to the side with his arms folded, made a noise of protest.

“You spoke to him without me?” he choked, sounding completely outraged. Grantaire snorted as he continued to stitch Marius back together.

“Hold your horses, E, you know the rules,” Grantaire didn’t look up, but his voice was light and his mouth twisted into a mirthless grin. “This is Ep’s party so she gets to call Ferre. If she can’t call Ferre, I call Ferre. Then Joly. Then Boss.” 

Grantaire finally sat back, satisfied with his work, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck from the awkward angle.

“You’re the target. You don’t ever get to call Ferre.” Enjolras made an angry growl in the back of his throat, looking away and Eponine had to suppress a snort. It was strangely reassuring to see that Enjolras hadn’t changed. She knew that this was probably delayed reaction; that everyone was currently running on adrenaline and that pretending this was normal was a far easier way of dealing with things than actually thinking about the horrors of reality. But just for a moment it felt like two years ago.

“What ‘bout me, R?” Marius looked up at him a little dopily, his eyes as wide as saucers, high as a kite on whatever it was that Joly had given him. It had certainly calmed him down and numbed him to a certain extent, but he’d still cried out when Grantaire had removed the bullet. Now he sat quietly, rather subdued, staring at the bloody metal object in the bowl on the table in front of him.

“You’re just above Enjolras,” Eponine replied, giving him a rare affectionate smile, but Grantaire could see the lines of worry around her eyes.

“Technically,” Grantaire leaned back, stretching his shoulder muscles, “he’s above Courf because that guy shouldn’t even be here; he invited himself along.”

“Higher than Courfeyrac and Enjolras,” Eponine grinned, teasing slightly. She reached out to ruffle Marius’s hair. “Marius, it’s your lucky day.”

Enjolras scowled. Just then, they heard the kitchen door opening. Enjolras looked at Grantaire, before shooting out of the bathroom, his feet clattering down the stairs. Eponine followed behind him. Grantaire stayed behind, taking the time to wash Marius’s blood from his hands. The man in question was blinking his eyes, trying to focus. He was obviously working towards standing and following the others but the drugs were making his limbs heavy. 

“Come on, you,” Grantaire said gently, helping Marius to his feet. “Do you want to keep your bullet?”

“Yes,” Marius said decidedly, turning awkwardly, almost stumbling in his effort to reach out for the small contorted piece of metal. “This one has my name on it so I should keep it somewhere safe so no one shoots me again.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, taking hold of the bullet and rinsing it under the tap, cleaning it thoroughly before holding it out to Marius. The guy looked extraordinarily serious as he accepted it before pocketing it quickly.

“Now, shall we go see how Feuilly’s doing?”

+

Joly was in full flow in the living room as Grantaire and Marius reached the bottom of the stairs. Feuilly was sitting in an arm chair, his hands clenched into fists where they rested on his knees. Both eyes had been bandaged. Eponine had just asked a question that Grantaire didn’t quite catch.

“That entirely depends,” Joly had his arms folded, the muscles in his forearms visibly clenching where his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He nodded in acknowledgement as Grantaire joined them before continuing.

“I’ve washed them thoroughly but they could still get infected. I don’t believe any glass has penetrated the eyeballs but only an x-ray would prove that either way. Whether he gets his sight back depends on whether the cornea is scarred or it’s merely an abrasion.”

“Guys, I’m right here,” Feuilly sighed, making an aborted move to rub his eyes, but returning his hands to his side.

“Sorry,” Joly looked contrite, his forehead wrinkled with stress.

“You need to keep your eyes bandaged for at least twelve hours, give them a chance to heal. After that, we’ll keep washing it to try to stave off infection until we can get you some eyedrops.”

Eponine looked at Courfeyrac who shrugged. There was no way Feuilly was going to travel with them. 

“Before you ask, the answer is no,” Joly said, interrupting their silent conversation. “He definitely won’t be in a fit state for cycling.”

Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac, raising his eyebrows.

“The plan was to cycle to the border. We can keep off the roads, stick to the countryside. Pose as a group of people on holiday,” Courfeyrac informed him, his face serious with consideration.

“Well even if we take the bandages off tomorrow morning and Feuilly’s eyesight is right as rain –”

“I’m _here_!” Feuilly spoke again, a little more forceful this time through gritted teeth.

“If your eyesight is right as rain,” Joly continued. “You still won’t be safe enough on a bike. You’ll slow the others down and if your depth of field has been affected you’ll be in real trouble, especially if you come off –”

“Yes, thank you, I get the idea.” Feuilly sighed, clenching his fists even tighter. Grantaire felt a stab of sympathy for him. Even though he had been very young when sustaining his own eye injury, he still remembered the terror of not being able to see anything except blood, of having to wait and hope that he would heal. Even now, he still couldn’t be sure if the sight in that eye was good, or if he had just adjusted, learnt to live with it. And at least his other eye had never let him down. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be completely in the dark.

“So,” Joly sighed, scratching a hand through his hair. “I propose a change to the plan. Feuilly should come back with Boss and I. There’s room in the ambulance. We’ll take him back to Reims, get him – sorry, you - checked out, and then cross the border together when it’s safe to do so.”

There was silence as everyone mulled it over.

“I guess we don’t have a choice,” Enjolras piped up.

“E, seriously. So not your job right now.” Grantaire spoke over him. Enjolras clamped his mouth shut, but his face flushed red, silently fuming. He turned and stalked out of the room.

“He’s right, though.” Courf looked round the room, his expression serious. “I know Ferre won’t like it but it’s the safest option. We can’t stay here too long so it’s best to keep moving. Feuilly?”

“Yeah, all right,” the man grumbled. “I’m sorry to let you guys down, though.”

“You’re not letting anyone down,” Grantaire growled. Feuilly inclined his head but said nothing more.

“All right, kids,” Eponine cleared her throat. “Wash, eat, whatever. I’m going to kip. I intend to sleep for at least eight hours. Then it’s breakfast and then we’re off. Any questions?”

No one spoke, fatigue suddenly heavy in the room.

“Good. Speak to you tomorrow.” And with that, she stalked up the stairs in search of a bed.

+

Grantaire sat alone in the living room, staring into the dark. He couldn’t seem to switch off. Everyone else had long since retired, Courf leading Feuilly upstairs, while Joly and Bossuet took the bedroom at the front of the house. He hadn’t seen Enjolras since the man had stormed from the room during the meeting. But if he wasn’t wrong (and he rarely was when it came to things like this) then the soft footsteps creeping down the stairs belonged to the man himself.

“R,” Enjolras didn’t bother turning the light on, standing in the doorway as though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though the last two years had never happened.

“Come to bed, R.” If Grantaire didn’t know better, he would have thought Enjolras sounded unsure, that there was a slight upper inflection, the suggestion of a question, at the end of that sentence.

“Enjolras,” and he didn’t mean to sound so tired, so utterly bone exhausted. But really it had been a hell of a day. In the shadows he could make out Enjolras crossing the room towards him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, E,” he muttered as soft hands found his face, a thumb tracing his scar. “You’re alive and Feuilly can’t see and it’s so fucked up,” he stopped talking as Enjolras rested a finger on his lip. Reflexively he opened his mouth, taking the digit into his mouth, sucking on it gently.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either, R. I’m exhausted. I’m broken. And I want to go to sleep in your arms so, please. Come to bed.”

When they collapsed onto the bed together, stripped down to their boxers, it was with every intention of falling straight to sleep. Grantaire reached forward awkwardly, brushing his fingers along Enjolras’s temple. Enjolras shuffled forward, folding himself into Grantaire’s arms.

“Don’t let me go, R. Don’t leave me.” Enjolras whispered into Grantaire’s neck, so quiet he barely heard him. Grantaire’s heart ached at the surprising vulnerability in Enjolras’s tone. Enjolras was so strong. He was a fighter and a survivor. And then he let Grantaire in, let Grantaire see him like this.

“I promise,” he murmured in reply. He pressed their foreheads together. Tomorrow was going to be scary. The day after that would probably be even worse. And the week after that, and the month after that. But they could work it out together.

“I missed you so much,” Grantaire murmured. Enjolras, sound asleep, didn’t stir. 

+

Enjolras opened his eyes. _It had all been a dream_. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t free. Oh fuck, he thought he was better than this. How could his brain be so cruel? Grantaire hadn’t been there at all, hadn’t come for him. He was still in this hellhole, wherever the fuck he was; this torture chamber that slowly sucked at his soul. 

He wanted R. He couldn’t be back here, he couldn’t, just couldn’t do this anymore. In the distance he could hear the sound of the wardens coming. They were going to plug him back into that fucking machine again, going to zap his mind, his most powerful possession; they were going to make him a vegetable, a sheep like all the other brainless morons in this godforsaken place. He just wanted R. He needed R. Enjolras opened his mouth to scream as hands reached forward to grab him.

+

Grantaire wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t used to sharing a bed anymore and he had always been a light sleeper; the past two years had just exacerbated that. Jehan had always said R had mastered the art of sleeping with his ears switched on.

 _Jehan_.

Grantaire knew he was going to have to tell Enjolras eventually. And about Bahorel. He wondered if Enjolras already knew, if that awkward moment in the corridor had been enough and Enjolras had just elected not to ask the question because he wasn’t ready to hear it out loud. He would have to tell him sooner or later though.

Grantaire had stayed awake for a long time listening to Enjolras breathe, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. There was a small frown upon his features, his lower lip pouting slightly. Grantaire tried to ignore the mark around the man’s neck in favour of counting Enjolras’s eyelashes. It was something magical, to have Enjolras as warm flesh in his bed once more.

Eventually R felt his eyes grow heavy, his mind wandering as he began to drift to sleep. He was swallowed up in a heavy, dreamless sleep, his whole body and mind exhausted. But then something hard struck his face and there was a loud strangled yell. Grantaire’s body reacted by instinct, his muscles moving swiftly, without the need to consult his brain.

When he opened his eyes, his vision cloudy with sleep, he was lying on top of his assailant, knife to the attacker’s throat, ready to deliver the fatal blow. He paused as he heard the bedroom door slam open.

“Holy fuck!” 

It was Courfeyrac’s voice. Courf, who had surely heard the sound of an attack and had come to help.

“Grantaire,” Eponine must be there too, her voice calm with an undercurrent of command. “Put the knife down.”

Grantaire blinked, his fuzzy vision clearing as the rest of him woke up.

Staring up at him, eyes wide with abject terror, was Enjolras. Grantaire blinked at him and then, very slowly, climbed off Enjolras. He sent the knife clattering to the floor, unable to tear his eyes away from Enjolras, as though trying to read his mind, to discern just how badly he had fucked up. Somewhere in the very back of his head, panic was setting in, but the rest of him felt completely calm, somewhat detached from reality. He couldn’t feel anything, just the weighty sense of what had just occurred.

Eponine and Courfeyrac stared at them, faces ashen with shock. Courf slowly stepped forward, not taking his eyes off Grantaire who now stepped off the bed so he was standing, still facing Enjolras, his back to the rest of the room. In the light cast from the hallway, Courfeyrac could see the maze and riddle of scars across Grantaire’s back and shoulders.

Courf reached forward to pick up the blade, before stepping round Grantaire, going over to where Enjolras was now sitting up in bed, still breathing hard, pale as a sheet. His hand was raised to his throat and small beads of blood gathered where the blade had been pressed.

“Enjolras,” Courf reached out with his empty hand, clasping Enjolras’s knee. The man snapped his eyes to him. His breath came in short, quick huffs, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. “Are you ok?”

“I –” Enjolras struggled for breath, scrunching his eyes closed as the dream flashed vividly across his mind. The winding corridors, the barren room, the machine with its sensors and biting, burning pain.

Enjolras was ashamed. He was exposed, his nerves raw after the dream, and now everyone could see how weak he was. He backed away from Courf’s touch, backed himself all the way up to the wall. He wanted to them all to go away, to leave him alone. He wanted Grantaire. Grantaire always made him better, had always understood. When it was just them, the rest of the world could burn and it would just be their hearts beating and he didn’t understand why Courfeyrac was standing between them, as though Grantaire was a dangerous wild animal. 

Grantaire wasn’t looking at him. He had turned his head, looking at Eponine who was staring back at him, eyes wide.

“Grantaire,” he croaked, his voice hoarse, his neck sore, but he didn’t care. Grantaire would never hurt him. Not ever.

Of course Grantaire responded to that voice. He was attuned to it. Once, long ago, Jehan had said that Enjolras could utter Grantaire’s name from a thousand miles away and Grantaire would still hear it. Sometimes, when they were on a job together and Jehan was keeping watch, Grantaire would suddenly wake, jerked from sleep as though someone had called him. “Enjolras wants you,” the young poet would joke.

Now he jerked his head back, locking eyes with the man on the bed, and he was overwhelmed by the sensation that he didn’t deserve the way Enjolras looked at him at that moment. Eponine hovered nearby, her face hard with concern.

“I could have killed you.” Grantaire’s voice was low but steady. Courf and Eponine exchanged glances but remained silent. They felt as though they were intruding on something incredibly private.

“Grantaire, come back to bed.” Enjolras stared at him, his pale face rigid with determination. 

Courf raised his eyebrows, looking over to Eponine who shrugged. He had absolutely no fucking idea what was going on. He had woken by the most appalling shout, had gone running up the stairs thinking that the Gendarmes had somehow found them, only to discover Grantaire on top of Enjolras with a fucking knife to his throat. He wouldn’t forget the look of fear on Enjolras’s face any time soon. 

Grantaire obeyed, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to take Enjolras’s hands. For a moment they stared at each other, as though communicating by telepathy. Courfeyrac held his breath.

“You… something hit me. I reacted.” Grantaire swallowed, suddenly looking absolutely sick. Enjolras tightened his grip on Grantaire, preventing him from going anywhere.

“I was dreaming,” Enjolras replied. “I must have lashed out.”

Courfeyrac looked at them both, feeling greatly troubled. They were both speaking like school boys caught breaking rules. They had clammed up, features schooled, as though far too many emotions had been revealed for one night. They had their stories straight and they were going to stick to them. It was quite clear that Enjolras wanted to be left alone, and by the twitching of Grantaire’s arms, he wanted to curl up tightly around Enjolras but wouldn’t dare approach him until everyone else had gone. He sighed.

“Ok, I’m going to take this downstairs,” he indicated the blade in his hand. “Are there any other weapons in this room that need to go with it?” Courf gave Grantaire a measured look. There was no way R carried only one blade, but it was unlikely he would give up his weaponry without an argument.

To his surprise Grantaire stood up, his face blank as he withdrew three other knives from god knows where down the side of the bed. He held them out, handles first, to Courf who took them.

“No gun?” He wasn’t calling Grantaire out, exactly. But Grantaire had always favoured guns over blades. They were quick, they were versatile. They could be stealthy or loud or messy or precise. Grantaire treated them with absolute meticulous care, stripping them down and cleaning them as a form of relaxation. Guns had always been Grantaire’s weapon of choice.

“They’re in my coat. I think I’ll be awake by the time I go rooting through my pockets,” he replied, his voice dry. Courf nodded.

“Fine. Sweet dreams everyone. Ep?”

Eponine peeled herself off the wall, her mouth set. She wasn’t happy with any of this, but there were still five hours before they had to leave and they all needed as much sleep as they could get. She closed the door behind her.

Instantly, Grantaire folded himself around Enjolras, burying his head into the man’s neck. Neither of them made a sound as they attempted to crawl into the other’s skin, clinging fast as though they were drowning, seeking land and air and life from the other.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Enjolras spoke calmly, tightening his grip on the man in his arms. “I wish I could control my dreams. I wish I could promise that it won’t happen again.” He kissed Grantaire’s curls, squeezing his eyes tight shut, allowing that deliciously unique Grantaire scent to swallow him whole.

“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire muttered in return, feeling far less calm now that the reality was beginning to strike home. He brushed his lips to the fresh scab on Enjolras’s neck, before licking it tenderly, making the other man shiver.

“I would rather be marked by you than anyone else,” Enjolras mumbled, pressing himself deeper into Grantaire’s arms. They lay like that for some time, completely content to just be, for the moment.

“I have forgotten,” Grantaire spoke at last, his voice strange in the darkness. “I've forgotten how to share my bed with another. My body tried to forget the comfort and warmth that you provide it. My body tried to live without you because it knew my heart could not.”

“Neither your heart, nor your body nor your mind need live without me ever again, my R,” Enjolras whispered fervently, pressing a kiss first to Grantaire’s forehead, then over his chest, before scooting down to the soft flesh of Grantaire’s belly just above his navel. He rested his head upon the warm downy skin, sighing in contentment, happy to cling to Grantaire with abandon now that it was just them. Absentmindedly he ran his fingers over the scarred flesh of Grantaire’s abdomen.

“You've been shot,” he murmured, tracing the circular scar tissue lightly with his fingers. He felt Grantaire sigh beneath him.

“A long time ago,” he breathed, enjoying the weight of Enjolras upon him. 

“Tell me about it?” Enjolras asked him quietly. Grantaire sighed. There was so much to tell. He felt as though his life had been on hold, had stopped completely the moment Enjolras’s hand had slipped from his grasp. Now that he actually thought about it, life had continued onwards, whether he had wanted it to or not.

“Not now, E. I will, I promise. I just… not right now.”

Enjolras kissed his belly again, before snuggling close, seeking warmth, comfort and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are all over the place - it's going to take more than a few hours for them to get used to the idea of being together once more. Oh, the angst!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for sticking with me so far, and to Sarah for letting me hound her and doing such a fantastic job as my beta.
> 
> Will try not to keep you waiting quite so long next time!


	13. In Which Everyone Heads For Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few hours sleep, the Amis start to head for the safety of the Belgian border

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh*  
> This is not a happy chapter, peeps.  
> There's a lot of angst. Trigger warnings for mentions of suicide, talk about character death, hanging, stabbing, being shot, wounds, torture. 
> 
> The timeline jumps about a bit as well, but hopefully it'll be clear. If not - please give me a shout. Also, I think I've tagged everything but if I haven't please feel free to give me a shout.

_“Jehan is dead.”_

_They were sitting outside their tent, staring up at the night sky and Grantaire knew it was time, knew that he couldn’t leave it hanging in the air much longer. Enjolras needed to know, and out here in the darkness under a canopy of stars seemed like the perfect opportunity._

_Enjolras screwed his eyes shut, his whole face a brief vision of pain. He nodded his head once, breathing in sharply, before opening his eyes and staring back at R._

_“I should have known when he wasn’t with you,” he started, breaking off and turning away, his hand reaching up to scrub at curls that weren’t there. “I guess I sort of did know, I just –” he sighed. “I just needed to have it confirmed.”_

_No further words were required._

+

When dawn broke over the safe house the morning after their escape from Angers, the occupants were already awake and preparing to leave. Eponine had woken them, knowing that Joly was anxious to get back to Reims with Marius and Feuilly. Grantaire had been deeply asleep for once, and was only vaguely aware of her voice cutting into his subconscious. By the time he had opened his eyes she had already retreated but the light had been left on and the bedroom door was ajar.

Enjolras was wrapped around him, his face pressed to Grantaire’s chest while the soft exhale of his breath tickled the skin there. Grantaire shifted up onto his elbow, careful not to dislodge the man on his arm, before slowly reaching over to run his thumb over the scab on Enjolras’s neck from the night before. At his touch, Enjolras opened his eyes and for a moment they stared at one another.

“R,” Enjolras exhaled, his pale face relaxing as he leaned into Grantaire’s touch. Grantaire ran his fingers gently down Enjolras’s jaw, ghosting over the shadowy scar at the top of his neck. He bent down, indulging in a kiss into which Enjolras arched readily. 

“What did they do to you?” he murmured, brushing first his fingers then his lips across the scar tissue covering Enjolras’s throat. Enjolras turned his head, exposing even more of his pale skin to Grantaire’s gentle touch, letting his eyes close.

Enjolras thought about what had happened to him, about that lonely room and the other people with him. He wondered how many of them the scientists had tried to resuscitate, and of those successfully revived how many had survived only to die later as part of another experiment. He reached up to catch Grantaire’s wrist. He felt the man freeze under his touch, but there was no resistance as he guided the fingers away from his neck to his lips where he covered them in gentle kisses.

“I will tell you, I promise,” he tried to smile but he wasn’t sure if he was at all successful. Grantaire nodded. There were so many conversations that they needed to have but they would have to wait. For now, they needed to get going.

While Enjolras went for a shower, Grantaire went downstairs to reclaim his blades from Courfeyrac, get some coffee and help make plans. As he entered the living room, he called out a friendly greeting to Feuilly and Courfeyrac who were sitting on the sofa. Feuilly’s eyes were still bandaged, his hands clenched and resting against the top of his thighs. Courf nodded a greeting in response. Joly was in the kitchen, inspecting Marius’s stitches at the table under the light.

“Nice work,” Joly complimented as R strolled in, headed for the kettle. The only coffee available was instant granules but it would be better than nothing, and possibly the last coffee he would get for at least a week.

“Well, I did have a good teacher,” R gave him a jovial grin, pouring himself a mug. Bossuet bumped his shoulder amiably as he made toast under the old grill. 

Marius was very pale and Grantaire could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Despite this, he gave Grantaire a shy smile. Joly finally sat back having pronounced himself satisfied and let Marius put his shirt back on.

Grantaire watched through the open doorway as Joly went to sit down next to Feuilly, muttering quietly to him before he started to unwind the bandages from his eyes. There were tiny little scabs of red in the delicate skin below his eyes and across his eyelids. As Feuilly winced, Joly gestured to Courfeyrac to turn off the living room light.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” he enquired gently, resting his hand reassuringly on Feuilly’s shoulder. Everyone stopped what they were doing, anxiously watching as Feuilly slowly opened his eyes. Feuilly was blinking as the room held its breath. He raised his hand, probably with the intention to rub, but Joly caught it nimbly.

“Feuilly?” he prompted, his voice soft with concern. 

“Well, I can sort of see you,” Feuilly spoke at last, turning his head to look directly at Joly, but the blinking continued, as though he was trying to clear his vision. “You’re a black and brown Joly-shaped blob.”

“So everything is blurry?”

Grantaire turned away, rinsing his now empty mug under the tap. If Feuilly could make out shapes, that was definitely promising. He could hear the relief in Joly’s calm tone as it filtered through the kitchen door, asking more questions. 

Time sped up after that. Bags were packed. Grantaire and Courfeyrac went to the shed at the bottom of the garden and extracted four of the bicycles kept there. They checked for tire pressure, oiled the brakes and made sure they had enough sleeping bags while Joly gave Enjolras the once-over.

When Grantaire and Courfeyrac re-entered the house, it was to find Enjolras gritting his teeth as Joly strapped up his ankle.

“I don’t care what you think, if you go over on it without any support you’ll bloody know about it,” Joly scolded before rounding on Grantaire.

“You,” he stated, and Grantaire took a step back. “He can take that off at night but make sure his ankle is strapped up again before you start cycling the following day.” Grantaire nodded his assurances, elbowing Courfeyrac sharply who instantly agreed. Enjolras scowled at them.

Eponine was sorting out the packs between the four of them; two tents, four sleeping bags and enough food and water for forty-eight hours. There were also all the files and papers she had taken from the Admin’s office in Angers. It was over 500km to Couvin and it was reckoned that it would take them about a week to cycle across France, avoiding Paris and crossing the border just north of Hirson.

Joly and Bossuet would be driving back in the borrowed ambulance, returning it to their contact in Reims before crossing the border to Belgium by train. Marius and Feuilly would be joining them, but it would be far too dangerous for all of them to travel on the road, especially in daylight hours. By now Enjolras’s absence would have been noticed and the authorities would be on the look-out for him. Instead, they would be cycling and camping. It was an easy way to travel, far safer than trains. They could keep off the beaten track, camp in woods and fields far away from prying eyes.

When Combeferre and Eponine had drawn up the plan, it was intended for them to be a group of five; Eponine, Feuilly, Marius, R and Enjolras. With the addition of Courfeyrac and the injuries sustained by Marius and Feuilly, adjustments had been made to the plan. Eponine would advise Combeferre of these adjustments the next time they found a public call box.

There were a quick round of hugs and goodbyes as Joly, Bossuet, Marius and Feuilly headed off in the ambulance, Marius helping Feuilly who was slightly unsteady on his feet as he desperately tried to force his eyes to work.

“We’ll probably be in Reims for a few days,” Joly said, pulling a bag onto his shoulder. Eponine frowned.

“Don’t wait for us,” she cautioned but Joly shook his head reassuringly. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised. And then they were gone, leaving the four of them to do a final sweep of the house, making sure they had left nothing behind. They knew a team of contacts would be coming in to clean properly in a few hours, but it never hurt to be thorough.

Enjolras had the lightest pack, not that he was aware of that for sure, however he did suspect it. But Eponine had issued it to him with a look on her face that advised him not to argue with her. He shrugged it onto his shoulders, pulling on a beanie to disguise his shaved head.

“We’re going to be taking it easy and slow,” Eponine looked round at them all. “We’ll be eating every four hours, but if anyone feels dizzy or sick or needs to stop,” she deliberately looked at R rather than Enjolras, “then we will.”

Eponine took a deep breath. This was the worst bit as far as she was concerned. The dangerous bit, the getting in and out, was over. But for her the worst bit was always the apparently easy bit. It was always the trip home, mission accomplished, that had her heart thumping in her chest. To be so close to success, to be able to taste the achievement; it was absolutely terrifying.

She had a rough idea of direction, but no set plan. The fewer plans they had the less chance they had of being discovered. The idea was that if each day was random then they would be hard to predict. She had spent years working in the system; this approach had the best chance of success. 

Before they left, Courfeyrac handed Grantaire a bundle; it was his blades all wrapped up in a blanket. Grantaire gave him a grateful look and started returning them to his various strategic points around his person.

“Those are Jehan’s blades aren’t they?” Enjolras enquired. He was slightly confused; Grantaire had always preferred guns. Knives were Jehan’s domain, though he knew R had mastered the art under Jehan’s careful tutoring some years before. 

“Yep,” Grantaire said, slamming the last one into its sheath in his boot, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes.

“Hey!” Grantaire visibly exhaled as Eponine shouted over to them. “You guys coming or are you standing around having a heart to heart while the gendarmes organise a pack of dogs for you?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes before starting to push his bike towards where Eponine was waiting impatiently with Courfeyrac, Grantaire following behind.

“Do you really think they’ll use dogs?” Courfeyrac went a funny colour as Enjolras and Grantaire caught up with them.

“Put it this way,” Eponine mounted her bike, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “We’ll be walking through a lot of rivers.”

+

They covered 90km that first day only because Enjolras had refused to stop, even after getting cramp. That had been his first row with Grantaire, the pair of them yelling at each other while Eponine and Courfeyrac sat on a grassy bank a few feet away. They shared some fruit and water while the argument ran its course, both of them grateful that there wasn’t another soul around for miles.

Grantaire had a point that Enjolras would be useless if he pushed himself too hard on the first day. But Enjolras really didn’t want to be reminded that he had spent the last two years cooped up in various cells. Besides which, he was relatively fit despite the ankle injury, as the scientists and doctors had been especially fascinated with muscle deterioration and his heart rate. As such, he had spent more than a few hours on exercise bikes and running machines in the name of science.

“When you two have finished,” Eponine cleared her throat. The pair of them stopped and looked round, as though remembering for the first time that other people existed. “If we cycle another 6km it will round our distance up to 90km which is perfectly respectable. It will also mean,” she carried on, even though both Grantaire and Enjolras looked as though they would like to interrupt, “that there will still be sufficient daylight for us to pitch the tents.”

They got back on their bikes, making their way along the track, watching the sun getting lower and lower in the sky on their left.

“You’re brave,” Courfeyrac muttered. Eponine shot him a quizzical look and he grinned. “Interrupting those two is like stopping two dogs from fighting; it’s generally discouraged unless you have a hose.” Eponine snorted with laughter.

“I promised Combeferre I’d get Enjolras back to him in one piece,” she replied with a grim smile. “They can kill each other once we reach Couvin”

+

Grantaire had built a fire while the others set about pitching the tents. Soon the billycans were boiling away with their dinner for that evening. It was a clear night, leaving a slight chill in the air and the four were grateful for the warmth of the fire.

Conversation had been slow, everyone far too tired. Courfeyrac had stretched out his calves while Eponine had gone through her map, making marks in pencil. Grantaire and Enjolras sat in silence, their argument forgotten. Courf and Eponine shared a look as Enjolras rested his head on Grantaire’s shoulder as they gazed at the fire.

“Ok, guys,” Eponine pulled herself to her feet, dusting the grass off her trousers. “I’m going to sleep. Try and get some rest, yeah? I’d like to do at least 85km tomorrow and you’re all going to be sore.”

There was a tired murmur of assent from the fire. Courf didn’t stay out much longer, finishing his stretches and bidding the other two goodnight, retreating to the tent he was sharing with Eponine.

“We should go to bed, too,” Enjolras muttered, showing no signs of actually moving. Grantaire sighed. He was wide awake. Falling asleep on a schedule was not something he was used to. Working alone meant that he slept and ate as required. 

“You go in, I’ll be through in a minute. I just want to check my kit,” he pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead as the man sat up, moving away to allow Grantaire to move.

R grabbed his pack, pulling out its contents, going over items the in his head; the billy cans, some food pouches, a clean shirt, first aid kit…

He pulled out a black bundle which he placed by his feet. Enjolras leant forward, running his fingers over the soft fabric, recognising it immediately. He leant back, looking up at Grantaire who kept his gaze resolutely on the pack in front of him.

Slowly, Grantaire started to repack his kit, taking up the black bundle, unfurling it and cataloguing the blades within. Enjolras watched him, watched his hands as they carefully sorted through the weapons he knew so well.

“You have Jehan’s knives,” Enjolras hugged his knees, looking up at the night sky. Grantaire sighed. Enjolras needed to know. It wasn’t fair to keep it from him any longer.

“Jehan is dead.”

+

It was one of the few things Grantaire remembered with any clarity from the days immediately following his release from the camp near Rouen. He had a bad case of blood poisoning and had gone into Septic Shock shortly after his arrival back in Reims. Joly and some of his contacts had worked tirelessly to try to keep him alive and after all that, when he was finally awake enough to start dealing with the world around him, Combeferre had sat with him and broken the news.

“Enjolras and Jean Prouvaire are dead.” Combeferre hadn’t beaten about the bush, or offered sincere condolences. He had looked at Grantaire with a steady gaze and Grantaire had waited to feel something; despair, heartbreak, anger, sorrow. But there had been nothing except a hollow sense of nothingness in his chest. Now that he was in Combeferre’s position, he wondered if that same hollow ache was how Enjolras felt in this moment. 

“He’s buried in Saint Lazare, in the family crypt,” Grantaire continued, unable to keep the bitterness from colouring his tone. “I saw it last year when I passed through.”

Grantaire had found himself there by accident and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He knew that the Prouvaire family were from the area and it had been surprisingly easy to find the location of their little corner of the cemetery. It had been a long shot, but Grantaire suspected that if the family had gone to the trouble of claiming their wayward son’s mortal remains, then it was likely they had put him with his ancestors. His hunch had paid off. 

He didn’t stay long, pausing to rub his thumb over the gold filigree set in the marble. He left behind a single red rose; red for blood, for passion, for anger and rage. Red for revolution. Red for love.

There was a strange lightness inside of Grantaire now that the words were said. It was an old sadness, one that he had carried inside of him like a stone. Enjolras’s absence had been a constant cloud of pain, but Jehan he had missed in a series of moments. He missed him in the rain, he missed him in the whisper of a breeze against shuttered windows. Most of all, he missed Jehan in those adrenaline-filled instances when he turned, the scent of blood in the air, catching a flash of strawberry blonde from the corner of his eye. 

Enjolras’s hand upon his sleeve brought Grantaire’s mind back to the present, back to that field beneath the starry sky. 

“Are you sure he is dead?” Enjolras’s voice was filled with sorrow and Grantaire reached out to pull him into a hug. He was grateful when Enjolras didn’t shrug him off, instead pressing himself close against Grantaire’s chest. 

“You were told that I was dead and yet here I am. How can you be sure Jehan is not… that he is not like me?” Enjolras reached up, framing Grantaire’s face with his hands, staring into his eyes with an expression that made R want to weep. No one wanted Jehan to be alive more than him. 

“In this case there is no question. There were witnesses,” Grantaire paused, rubbing at his mouth, an old ache rising in his chest. In a much lower voice he murmured, “Combeferre saw it all.”

Combeferre had told him everything with a strange darkness in his tone. Grantaire had never seen their guide more despondent, less happy with the world than when he spoke of Jehan’s death. Combeferre had always believed in the civilisation of man, that education and a reasoned argument could achieve anything. Some of that faith had been torn apart with Jehan’s death and Grantaire hated that.

Combeferre had been fighting his way through the crowd, trying to help, trying to find his friends. He had heard Jehan before he had seen him, that strong voice rising up above the melee. Then the crowd had parted and through the chaos Combeferre had seen him. Jehan was handcuffed, bent forward as two gendarmes tried to wrestle him away towards a van. He was shouting, his face flushed.

“Vive la France!” Jehan had bellowed, kicking out at his captors. “Vive l’avenir!”

Combeferre had watched how Jehan had bitten down hard on one of the hands holding him, had fought and struggled; kicking, biting and thrashing whilst still shouting, still protesting. Combeferre had tried to fight his way over, to help the man somehow, but before he got there, one of the gendarmes had thrown Jehan against a wall, taken out his pistol and shot him, silencing his words of protest.

Later, when he told Grantaire what had happened, Combeferre said that if he had been armed, he would have shot the man right then and there, consequences be damned. Combeferre had reached out to Grantaire, squeezing his arm just above the elbow, the mask of control slipping just enough to convey to Grantaire just how sincerely he meant it, and Grantaire had believed him.

“You don’t need to worry though,” Grantaire nodded, almost absently. “I got the fucker myself not that long ago.” Enjolras said nothing and Grantaire pretended not to notice the wetness of the man’s eyes shining in the starlight. They sat in silence for a moment, staring out into the dark.

“Good.” Enjolras said at last.

+

Their muscles were sore the next day, as predicted. Eponine had slept badly and she was tired. Courfeyrac was a considerate tent-mate; he hadn’t snored or stirred but all the same, she had remained awake, staring at the roof of the tent, listening to his breathing.

She had heard the quiet murmur of voices outside, followed by the rustling of fabric as Enjolras and Grantaire retreated to their tent. Then there had been only silence and the silence was worse because now in the wind she heard footsteps, in the breeze she heard voices.

At dawn she left the tent, resetting the fire, boiling up some water in the billy cans. Overnight, clouds had gathered, threatening rain. She woke the others, getting the tents packed up quickly before the rain started.

“Cycling!” Courfeyrac grumbled as the first spatters of rain splashed down on them. “Whose idea was this?”

“Combeferre’s,” Grantaire yelled, grinning madly as he increased his pace, peddling past Courfeyrac, chuckling. Eponine, leading the pack, merely rolled her eyes.

“Then I shall have strong words with him when I return!” Courfeyrac called after him, allowing his pace to slow so that he and Enjolras cycled side by side. They continued on as best they could, but the mud made their path very slippery, while the rain made it miserable.

They stopped at a town, a small place; just a gathering of houses, a boulangerie, an épicerie, and a café with tobacconist. They leant their bicycles against a wall before darting inside the café, gasping at the blast of warm air that greeted them. 

“No,” Grantaire murmured, as Enjolras reached up automatically to remove his beanie. “Leave it on.”

Enjolras sighed, but left the hat where it was. They were deep in rural France, a good 130km from Angers, but it would be foolish to leave behind too many clues. Four friends who came into shelter from the rain drew no particular interest. The fact that one was pale and thin and had a shaved head; that was far more memorable.

They warmed themselves with hot food and coffee, but remained silent while they ate. Eponine bought a newspaper from the tabac, but it contained nothing of the events two nights ago. She raised her eyebrows at Grantaire who merely shrugged. There could be many reasons for the IG not to publicise the attack on Angers, although it surprised him that they hadn’t tried to spin it as a terrorist attack on what was, according to all records and sources, a hospital.

He said as much that evening when they made camp deep in the woods. They had bought more supplies from the épicerie, and topped up their water bottles. The woods they had entered had provided a certain amount of shelter from the rain, but in the end they only managed to cycle 75km before Eponine insisted that they stop. 

Admittedly, Courfeyrac had kept his grumbling to a minimum, and Enjolras had been disguising his pained whimpers every time they went over a particularly large bump in the path. But everyone was exhausted and soaked to the bone. They made camp in a clearing set quite a way off the track, but everything was far too wet for a fire. They retired to their tents, bidding each other goodnight and hoping for dry weather in the morning.

+

Grantaire kissed Enjolras hungrily, his hands roaming, seeking the familiarities of Enjolras’s body. Enjolras parted his legs, hooking them round Grantaire’s waist, pulling him in. He bit back a groan as Grantaire sank his teeth into the meat of Enjolras’s shoulder, their bodies moving together.

“I wish you would fuck me,” he groaned, gasping into Grantaire’s ear, raking his nails down the man’s back. Enjolras was aware of the blood pounding through his veins, the very life within himself. With Grantaire on top of him, around him, consuming him, Enjolras felt alive.

“Well,” Grantaire huffed, thrusting against Enjolras, before shifting, bringing his hand between them to take both of their cocks in his hand, “I’m sure you understand that lubricant was not on the top of my list when packing for this trip.”

Enjolras huffed a laugh, keening at Grantaire’s touch. His arse ached; he wanted Grantaire to take him, to claim him once more.

“Please R,” he moaned, trying to be quiet, aware that they were in the middle of a wood and that sound carried at night. 

“I’m not fucking you tonight, Enjolras,” Grantaire stated as firmly as he could, considering that there was nothing that he wanted more. He kissed up Enjolras’s throat before sucking on his lower lip. Finally, he groaned, as though giving in to some urge he had been fighting. Enjolras whined when Grantaire released them both, but then those fingers were pressed against his mouth and he parted his lips eagerly.

“Suck well, Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured. “You may not get my cock, but I’m sure I can do you some small service.”

Sitting back, he pressed a spit-sodden finger to Enjolras’s entrance, pushing forward. Enjolras arched his back, hissing happily at the intrusion.

“Fuck, R, I’ve fucking missed you. Oh fuck!” he gasped. Grantaire grinned, shaking his head slightly. He hoped poor Eponine and Courfeyrac had ear plugs.

R pushed forward with a second finger, thrusting them in and out, fingering Enjolras expertly. He was tight and the spit was not quite enough but Enjolras did not seem to care. He writhed beneath R’s touch and his face was a picture of delight.

The sound Enjolras made when Grantaire took his cock in his other hand was otherworldly and Grantaire bent down, kissing the tip, playing across it with his tongue, before swallowing Enjolras down.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras was breathing heavily now, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly and his hands clutching at the sleeping bags, at Grantaire’s shoulders, before finally finding their home knotted in R’s hair. With a small cry he came, eyes screwed tight shut, his hands gripping hard to Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire swallowed without complaint. 

He withdrew his fingers, wiping them on his discarded boxers. He rested his head on Enjolras’s abdomen, the downy skin soft against his cheek.

So many thoughts ran through Grantaire’s mind at that moment, even though he was still achingly hard and Enjolras seemed in no mind to do anything about it.

_I love you, Enjolras. You were dead and I never said it to you. You’ve never said it to me, either. I lost you. But I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much it scares me. But I’ve always loved you._

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’s hands moved from R’s hair down to his face, cupping his chin, demanding his attention. He looked up, fearing for a moment that he had spoken out loud. But Enjolras looked down at him with peaceful benevolent eyes. He pulled Grantaire up to join him, kissing him deeply while his fingers teased at R’s nipples. Eventually they wandered lower, skirting over his navel, past his hip bones and then finally, at last, he took Grantaire’s cock in his hand. 

His orgasm was swift; Enjolras always did know how to bring him off quickly. After they had cleaned themselves up as best they could, he lay sated in Enjolras’s arms. The air in the tent was warm and sweaty, heavy with the scent of sex. They listened to the gentle patter of the rain outside while Enjolras’s fingers traced patterns across his chest.

“Bahorel is dead, too,” Grantaire said at last. His mind had been wandering, thinking about Enjolras, about the rain and Jehan and how much had happened in the last two years. He felt Enjolras’s fingers grip him, just for a moment, squeezing him in recognition of what was said, before they resumed their maze across his skin.

“What happened?” Enjolras’s voice was strange in the dark; peaceful, sad and curious.

“He was stabbed at the rally, by the first wave of National Guards when it all started to go wrong,” Grantaire spoke calmly, the events of that day running through his mind. He could see Bahorel grinning across from where he stood at the corner of the crowd, looking round at all the people who had come to hear Enjolras speak. 

He remembered the exchange of worried looks, how the atmosphere had changed when the army and National Guards began to arrive. More than anything else, he remembered the look of complete surprise on his friend’s face when the blade of the sword that cut off his life found its way into his chest. Grantaire shot the Guard responsible but by the time he reached Bahorel the man was dead and panic had already set into the crowd.

“But you got out all right?” Enjolras wasn’t looking at him, his attention focussed on his fingers where they continued to make circles on Grantaire’s chest.

“No,” he murmured, his voice almost too low to be heard. “No, I was shot.” 

He clasped Enjolras’s hand, bringing it gently down to the scarring on his belly, guiding light fingers over the round mark.

Being shot, it turned out, was the easy bit. He imagined it was similar to being punched by a train; his whole body had been thrown backwards against the Parisian cobbles, knocking his head as he fell. As he had stared up at the sky, he wondered at the blueness of it all while the world came to an end around him.

But the world hadn’t ended. He was hauled into the back of a van. The bullet was dragged out of his gut without any kind of pain medication. The wound was then washed with vodka which was almost as painful as being shot in the first place. Then he had been given a needle and thread and told to stitch himself up.

“Luckily I had Joly’s training or else I would have made an even bigger mess of it,” he said lightly, staring up at the roof of the tent. 

When his captors decided that he was no longer in danger of dying, they moved him to a prison camp for processing.

Enjolras turned his attentions away from Grantaire’s belly, instead taking the man’s hand in his, linking their fingers as much as they were able to, given the damage.

“Your hand,” Enjolras breathed, turning his head to nestle against Grantaire’s neck. “They did this to you at the camp.”

It wasn’t a question. They were both aware of the techniques used to extract information from people.

“They wanted to know which group I had been with, who I had worked for,” Grantaire swallowed. He had never spoken of what happened to anyone, not even Feuilly. When he had returned to Les Amis there was nothing to say. But this was different, this was Enjolras. They shared everything.

Grantaire turned his body so that he rested on his side, no longer on his back. He pulled Enjolras to him, an echo of the many times they had been together in the past, forehead to forehead, seeking comfort in the presence of one another.

“A man came and held down my arm at the wrist. I could have fought him off, but there would have been another and another and they would have just shot me. At that point I thought you were still alive; all I wanted was to return to you.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, his hands gripping Grantaire by the wrist.

“First they took only up to the first knuckle. Then up to the second. When they reached the third knuckle I passed out.”

Enjolras released his wrists, pulling Grantaire into his arms. He was shaking.

“I can’t bear it,” he hissed. “I hate what they did to you. What they did to us. I can’t bear it.”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s boney shoulders, kissing his neck.

“I kept it clean; clean enough for Joly to save the rest of my hand once they found me,” Grantaire whispered his assurances. 

He didn’t tell Enjolras of the nightmares he suffered when he thought the man would return to take the rest of his fingers. He also left out the finer details, how he had gone into Septic Shock after his hand became infected, that his right arm had been almost completely useless for two months. He didn’t say that the reason he preferred blades these days was that, while he was still able to fire a gun, it caused him tremendous pain, especially in cold or wet weather. Some things Enjolras didn’t need to know.

Enjolras settled back in Grantaire’s arms, no longer holding onto him desperately, but still maintaining as much body contact as possible. It was overwhelming to be in his presence like this once more. The violence of his emotions terrified him; he felt raw, as though all his nerves had been flayed.

“They hanged me, R,” he spoke at last. He felt Grantaire freeze beneath him, but he carried on. He had started so he may as well continue to the end

“It was a sad, pathetic little room. Me and a group of others. They said they were going to make examples of us!” Enjolras’s voice hitched slightly, as though he was trying to keep in a laugh. He clutched at Grantaire, keeping himself grounded as he thought about that day.

He thought of how the rope felt around his neck, about the strange sensation of being hauled off his feet, how it had taken far too long to die.

“They murdered me,” he said. “They turned me into Subject Twenty-two. I don’t know how many there were –” he trailed off, burying himself into Grantaire’s side, hiding his face.

“I’m different, R,” he muttered. “I don’t recognise myself. I sometimes think that I did die and they brought back someone else,” he sighed, preparing to voice his biggest fear. 

“They broke me.”

“No, E,” Grantaire kissed his forehead, caressing his face with his thumbs. “You are perfect. You are mine. You are definitely not broken.”

The next day, as they packed up the camp, Courfeyrac looked as though he would make a joke about the noise, but something of the seriousness of the conversation that had followed must have shown on their faces, as he kept his laughter to himself.

+

The third day was much better weather. They risked travelling by road for a while, managing to travel 120km before stopping to make camp. Everyone was far more cheerful as they pitched their tents and hung any remaining damp clothes over tree branches, giving them a chance to air.

“We’re making good progress,” Eponine grinned. “We’re over half way.” She sat cross legged on the grass, ticking off distances on the map.

“My arse will never be the same again,” Courfeyrac grumbled, throwing himself down beside the fire, flopping an arm over his face. “I wish I had gone with Joly and the others.”

“What, and miss out on such a fantastic experience?” Grantaire feigned mortification, before handing a toasting fork to his friend. They cooked sausages and potatoes that night, allowing a little more chatter and laughter.

When they curled up together in their tent, Enjolras’s head resting upon his chest, Grantaire wished he could be selfish and keep Enjolras to himself, just as they were at that moment.

“Do you know what we should do?” he whispered, not even sure if Enjolras was still awake. There was an answering hum, a soft vibration that moved through his body and he grinned.

“We should go to a house on the coast. Just you and I. We could lie in bed with the windows open and hear the waves crashing on the sand. We could go swimming at night and fuck on the beach,” Grantaire rose up on one elbow, carried away by his vision. 

“We could pretend that we were normal people, just two human beings together for the pure joy of it, Enjolras.”

The man in question was looking up at him with an amused expression on his face.

“Has this trip not put you off holidays for life, R?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He shuffled back against his pillow, a grin upon his face.

“Besides, you know we’re going to be far too busy for such time-wasting!”

Grantaire sat back, trying to ignore the stabbing sensation in his chest, making sure not to let the hurt show upon his face. Of course there would be no time for trips to the beach. Not for them.

“Combeferre is going to want to maximise the publicity about Angers and other places like it. With all the material Eponine has, not to mention eye witness testimony, we should be able to let people know exactly what is going on in France and just what depths the IG is prepared to sink to.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, letting Enjolras’s words wash over him. Some things never changed, apparently.

“Do Joly and Bossuet still run the radio station?” Enjolras enquired, turning to look at Grantaire.

“Yes,” he replied with confidence. He had tuned in to every show while on his travels. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to hear, but it had been nice to have that connection, to be able to listen to their voices a couple of times a week.

Enjolras continued to prattle on, making plans. He was thinking out loud more than he was actually holding a purposeful conversation, and after a while Grantaire didn’t even bother grunting his response.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras finally paused. “Are you even listening?”

R opened his eyes, looking over to where Enjolras was sitting up, his usually pale cheeks flushed pink with whatever he had been saying. Grantaire was struck with the sudden urge to slap him. His mind cruelly dragged up the memory of a teenage boy sitting despondent and abandoned in the refectory.

"You're never going to stop, are you,” he stated, because it wasn’t a question, not really. Enjolras would always be Enjolras. As long as there was air in his lungs he would fight. 

Enjolras looked at him in surprise. Grantaire had half expected the man to attack him for his words, to start an argument, but Enjolras hesitated, his head on one side.

“I don’t understand you,” he said at last. “When they told you I was dead, what did you do?”

Grantaire felt as though he had been slapped. He opened his mouth, found there was nothing to say and so closed it again. Enjolras waited, looking expectant.

“I left,” Grantaire finally found his voice. “I left Reims.”

“And?” Enjolras pressed him, arms folded. “Come on, R, I know what you did. Courfeyrac told me. You went out and did what you do best. You fought injustice, you fought for Les Amis. _You didn’t stop_.”

"The thought occurred to me, believe me,” Grantaire interrupted, not wanting Enjolras to get the wrong idea. On far more than one occasion he had seriously considered blowing his own brains out. Combeferre had known it, too. Grantaire had seen the flash of understanding, fear and regret in the eyes of the guide when they said their goodbyes. Grantaire could tell the man was wondering whether they would ever meet again.

“You can always come back here,” Combeferre had caught his elbow. The action was simultaneously uncharacteristic yet so very typical of Ferre, and it had almost been enough to convince him.

Almost.

“I won’t, though,” Grantaire had said, turning to leave. “But thank you.”

Now he looked at Enjolras and it seemed so stupid to compare the situations. 

“I thought about it a lot,” he admitted, for once staring right into Enjolras’s eyes, not wanting him to be under any illusions about just how fucked up those first few months alone had been. “But I figured there were other more deserving heads than my own at which to fire my gun."   
The two men stared at each other. Grantaire lowered his gaze first, picking at his finger nails.

“I don’t know why we’re arguing about this,” he sighed, scratching at his head. “You know I'll follow you anywhere in the world.” Enjolras frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but Grantaire waved his hand, talking over him. “If that's back into the jaws of hell then so be it.”

Enjolras’s expression softened. He reached out, taking Grantaire’s hand in his, running his fingers along the raised veins.   
"Happily ever afters are not for us, R. You know that, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My usual thanks to Sarah for being my beta.  
> Also to everyone for travelling this road with me - you're all lovely.


	14. In Which Enjolras Tries to Adapt To His New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gathers in Couvin and they try to find a way forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so a tiny weeny warning for a mention of non-con drug use. Otherwise this is just.... very angsty.

Marius leaned against the cool tiles of the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him. For a few minutes all he could do was breathe, his eyes closed as he focused on the tension leaving his body.

He was safe. He was back in Belgium. Enjolras was alive and, all being well, would be joining them either tomorrow or the day after. Despite all these truths, Marius could not relax, his whole body racked with tension and stress. 

They had spent a week in Reims, Joly arranging a scan for Feuilly’s eye as well as procuring eye baths and eye drops. The scan had come back clear and so it only remained for papers to be sorted for Feuilly and Marius before they made the final stage of their journey.

Marius had been forced to bed for most of this time, although he had gone without complaint. He had been running on adrenaline for days and being shot had just compounded that. He slept for eighteen hours straight, not even stirring when Joly changed his dressings.

Combeferre had issued a code nine which meant everyone who wasn’t already over the border to withdraw to Belgium. Joly and Bossuet were already there full time, having moved six months ago when Joly secured a placement at the hospital in Couvin where he was already well on his way to becoming a fully qualified doctor. Bossuet followed wherever Joly led, though they both frequently visited Combeferre in Reims, relations between the two countries cordial enough to permit frequent crossings at the border, provided you were in possession of the correct paperwork, of course.

A temporary station had been established in Couvin now that a full retreat had been declared; a base of operations from which future plans could be made. It was to this base that Joly, Bossuet, Marius and Feuilly had gone, their papers stamped at the border without a second glance.

As Marius shut off the water, he tried not to dwell on the ache in his arm. The stitches would need to be taken out eventually, but Joly was satisfied with his progress. With a towel draped around him, he returned to his room, looking forward to fresh clothes and some dinner.

Belgium was a bit of a culture shock in comparison to France. For one thing, there were cars here; actual cars that people owned and drove around without so much as a second thought. Petrol was extremely expensive and heavily rationed, but all the same it was a delightful novelty to travel in the privacy and comfort of a vehicle with just you and your friends.

There was no curfew as such, but after a certain time of night you could expect to be stopped and asked for your papers. The first time it had happened to Marius in Antwerp he had nearly passed out, babbling to the surprised police officer that he had been told, assured by Valjean himself, that there was no curfew in force. Once the officer established that Marius was French he was given a look of sympathy and sent on his way without further interrogation.

The situation in Belgium was more democratic than in France, with greater freedoms granted to the people. The economy was relatively stable and there were jobs enough. There were other attractions here as well for Marius; things that he only allowed himself to think about now that he was back safely over the border.

“Marius?” Bossuet stuck his head round the door just as Marius pulled a sweater over his head. The bald man grinned at him, jerking his head slightly.

“One of your colleagues from Antwerp is downstairs. They want a debrief.”

Ah.

When Marius had left he had been in a bit of a hurry. He had taken the photograph of Enjolras, dug out his old papers and booked himself on the next train over the border without so much as a second thought. Naturally he knew there would be consequences to his actions; one did not simply up and leave in the middle of the night with material that belonged to the Société des Droits de L’homme and expect to get away without censure.

Taking Marius in had been a favour to Combeferre and Marius had tried his level best not to disappoint either party. Now it was time to face up to those consequences. He went downstairs with a heavy heart, wondering who they might have sent. Taking a deep breath, he turned the door handle and stepped inside.

Standing by the window, the sun reflecting off her hair, was the last person Marius would have expected.

“Cosette,” he exclaimed, crossing the room towards her, feeling his heart leap. But she glared at him, her arms folded.

“That’s Mademoiselle Fauchelevant to you,” she replied coldly. It brought Marius to a sudden stop and he felt the blush creeping up his cheeks. Cosette always did seem to make him blush.

The first time he had met her his profuse blushing had led to her enquiring after his health, sure that he was suffering some fever. It had been his second week at work and his new colleagues had ribbed him for it mercilessly, that the awkward French boy should fall so hard for the daughter of their boss. It had taken him two months to build up the courage to talk to her and another three before he could stop stammering long enough to ask her out for coffee.

But their relationship had blossomed despite his talent for inserting his foot into his mouth on frequent occasions. He adored her and she smiled and made conversation and it had all been going so nicely. Now she glared at him and his heart sank.

“Marius Pontmercy,” she pronounced, as though reading him his charges in court. “You left without a note, without a _word_ to anyone,”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, staring at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. She strode over to him and he stepped back, as though he expected her to strike him. But instead she lifted her hand to his chin, her fingers soft but firm as they forced him to look at her.

“You got shot. Again,” her tone had changed from angry to concerned and her eyes searched him as though to uncover anything else he might have hidden from her.

“Believe me, it was not my intention,” he replied, the very picture of apology. A moment later he hissed in surprise as Cosette pulled him into a hug.

“It was worth it, though? Your friend is safe?” she whispered into his ear. Marius clung to her, breathing her in, a strange calm descending upon him. He had missed her so much, had tried not to think of her whilst in France, in case he didn’t make it back to her. But that was all behind them now.

“Yes, Enjolras is safe.”

Cosette pulled back, looking him in the eyes, a strange determined expression on her face before she kissed him, slowly and with purpose. Marius just about died in her arms.

“Then promise me you will never do anything so foolish ever again.”

Marius promised.

+

Combeferre was pacing the floor, waiting impatiently for word from Eponine as to which train they would be on. They were already two days overdue, after suffering a puncture not to mention the bad weather and general exhaustion. From what the others had said of their brief reunion with Enjolras, he was in relatively good health, all things considered, but Combeferre would not be happy until he had seen the man for himself.

The phone on his desk rang and he leapt to answer it. Ep’s voice was clear and efficient. They would be in at 16:04. All present and correct, no further updates. He acknowledged her call before replacing the receiver. In three hours, Enjolras would be back.

Combeferre had already prepared the office, knowing that Enjolras would want to see all the archives relating to the Paris riots, not to mention the work of Les Amis since then. He had also taken the trouble of procuring as many newspaper articles as possible about the incident in Angers. There were conflicting reports, but the general agreement was that something had taken place in that lonely corner of France; that a government building had either been blown up or burnt down and such things hadn’t happened for years. The rumour mill was in full swing and the word on the street was that Les Amis were back in business. Enjolras would want to know.

He was also slightly terrified, which was not at all his nature. What was Enjolras going to say? Would he be angry with Combeferre, for not trying hard enough to find him, for not furthering the cause in his absence? Combeferre had never been the driving force behind Les Amis, choosing to be more of a navigator. He had tried his best but now that was about to be put to Enjolras’s scrutiny and Combeferre was concerned that he would be found wanting.

The argument over who should go to the station was settled by the decision to take two cars. Joly had his dusty estate that he had inherited when securing his job at the hospital. Combeferre was currently borrowing a hatchback that would only just about take four people but there was no way he was going to be left behind. Feuilly, now able to see completely out of his right eye, while only suffering a certain amount of blurred vision in his left, had outright refused to stay at home, so he travelled with Combeferre while Bossuet kept Joly company.

They were early to the station, parking relatively easily before going to wait on the platform for their friends. Combeferre’s heart was in his mouth as the train pulled in, anxiously looking out through the crowds. And then, they were in front of him; Enjolras was in front of him looking absolutely dreadful, if Combeferre was being honest. He was pale to the point of translucent, eyes sunken and surrounded by waxy skin. The beanie covered the worst of the damage on his head, but the clothes he wore positively swallowed him up. Without even saying a word, Combeferre swept him into a hug.

He half expected Enjolras to protest. Certainly the Enjolras from the old days had never had time for hugging or other public displays of affection. He imagined the man would snort and try to push him away, but instead he felt bony fingers clinging to his coat.

Grantaire was hugging Feuilly while Joly and Bossuet helped Courfeyrac and Eponine with the bicycles.

“We brought the estate,” Joly grinned, handing the last one down out of the train carriage. “We can throw them in the back.”

“Who is travelling where?” Joly asked, looking to Combeferre who had only just released Enjolras. He blinked in surprise, as though suddenly remembering everyone else was there. 

“I’ll travel with Ferre,” Courf volunteered. Ferre shot him a smile; he had missed Courfeyrac, it had been no fun at all in Couvin without him. “E, you in with us?”

Enjolras looked over to Grantaire and there was a strange moment of silence. The old Enjolras would not have hesitated, would never have spared even a glance at Grantaire before taking his place with his Right and Left. To see him look at Grantaire like that, it was alien. 

Grantaire was by his side in a flash, pressing his hand to Enjolras’s cheek. He muttered something, words for Enjolras alone, who closed his eyes before nodding. He turned then, a tired smile on his face.

“Sure, I’m in.”

They managed to squeeze one of the bikes into the boot of the hatchback by lowering one of the backseats. Enjolras sat shotgun with Courf squeezing in behind him. The other three bikes were thrown haphazardly into the back of Joly’s car. Grantaire dived into the front seat, putting his feet up on the dashboard with a groan as Eponine, Feuilly and Bossuet climbed into the back.

“Has everyone got their seatbelts on?” Joly queried, checking his rearview mirror. There was a grumble of complaints and the sound of various belts being clicked into place before Joly started the engine.

“How was the trip up?” Joly asked, shooting a look to R who had his eyes closed. 

“Exhausting. But we made it,” Eponine answered for him. Silence returned to the car, Feuilly looking out the window, R apparently asleep in the front while Eponine and Bossuet kept shooting him worried looks.

“You know, all things considered, Enjolras doesn’t look to bad,” Bossuet broke the silence. In the mirror, Joly saw Eponine wince and Feuilly’s face hardened.

“It’s not the outside I’m worried about,” Grantaire spoke up suddenly from the front seat.

+

Enjolras was a mess. He had always been prone to fits of passion, but now he was quiet, dangerously so, until pushed into an explosion. He outright ignored requests to rest, insisting on sitting with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, going through every detail of what he had missed, every newspaper cutting, every magazine article until he felt confident that he was up to date with the current situation.

He wouldn’t let Joly give him more than a cursory examination, saying that he had spent more than his fair share under the glare of a physician’s microscope and if he never set foot in a hospital for the rest of his days it would be too soon.

They tried to get him to rest, to get him to eat, but everything was a fight. The only one he didn’t fight with, was Grantaire. R stood back, never far away, his eyes always on Enjolras. But now his arms were folded and his brow was furrowed. There was pity and frustration and hurt in his eyes. If ever Enjolras directed his anger at the man who had been by his side for nearly half of his life, then R would stand like a tree weathering a storm.

“You’re going too fast, Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed, trying to reign his friend in. He understood Enjolras’s frustrations. He wanted to world to know of the horrors going on inside France as much as anyone.

“No, we’re acting too slowly! It has already been three weeks since we blew up Angers and we have yet to make an official statement.” Enjolras reached up to run his hand over the bristles of his hair.

“The people need to know what has happened to their fellow citizens, what has happened to me!” he leaned down against the desk, breathing hard, his sudden outburst having sapped up his energy.

“Enjolras, we have no proof,” Combeferre reminded gently. They were still working through the papers Eponine had managed to take from the Admin’s office. Once they had evidence they would be able to make a formal statement. Until then, no one would believe accusations of human experimentation in prisons disguised as hospitals; it would be dismissed as propaganda and fear mongering. Combeferre reflected that the fact that it was too wild to be believed was probably something the IG was banking on.

Enjolras banged his hand on the desk.

“I am proof!” he shouted, eyes flashing. Combeferre shook his head.

“You’re a biased source, Enjolras,” he replied sadly. What had happened to Enjolras was unbelievable, not only in mere rhetoric. If the people were to believe the truth of it, then they would need more than a stolen autopsy report and Enjolras’s word.

That there had been an event at Angers was without question. That it was because the leader of Les Amis had been used as a lab rat by the state for the past two years would require a bit more.

+

“Enjolras, no!”

Combeferre rarely lost his temper; it wasn’t in his nature. But what his friend was suggesting was not only ludicrous, it was outright unbelievable.

Enjolras had been back with them for nearly two months. It had all taken them a while to adjust, getting used to him being amongst them again, watching the power transfer from Combeferre and Courfeyrac jointly, back to include their chief. 

Marius had returned to Antwerp to continue his work under Valjean, but he visited most weekends. Feuilly was staying with Joly and Bossuet while he looked for work, the sight in his left eye still not completely clear but well enough for him to try his hand at something. Feuilly was good at adapting to any situation; he shouldn’t have too many problems.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had found a flat which they were more than happy to share with Grantaire and Enjolras until the latter found a space of their own. However, that was unlikely to happen any time soon. 

Grantaire had never had a fixed abode of his own; being more of a nomad, he had hopped between sofas or slept in Enjolras’s bed. The last two years had made him worse and Combeferre could tell the man found it uncomfortable to be in one place for such an extended period of time. Enjolras, however, seemed to be completely blind to this.

He had his own troubles to deal with. R told Combeferre that Enjolras refused to sleep in a bed, preferring a chair or the floor. He was prone to nightmares, screaming and lashing out and sometimes not even R’s words and strong arms could comfort him. In the morning he would pretend nothing had happened, refusing to broach the subject. He remained pale despite regaining a little strength and he still ate badly. While Combeferre decided that R had been exaggerating when he advised that Enjolras only ate at gun point, he suspected that scenario was not as far away from the truth as it should have been. 

Two weeks ago Les Amis had done a radio broadcast with Enjolras speaking out against his treatment in Angers, as well as various other “hospitals” around France. This was followed by a published statement in as many papers as would accept them, setting out in details everything that had happened, including source material as evidence to back up their claims.

They had waited with baited breath for a response and for a few days Enjolras had glowed. It had been like the old days, his eyes filled with hope as, one by one, statements were made, all with the same rhetoric.

“We are disturbed to hear of these allegations….”

“We are concerned about the reports coming from our neighbours…”

“We heartily condemn the alleged treatment of prisoners…”

But then it had all fizzled to a stop. The story faded to the back pages. The outcry dimmed and the friends stared at each other with open mouths.

“No one wants to hear such stories,” Valjean had told Combeferre over the telephone, his voice full of regret as it came down the line. “It is an uncomfortable truth but the fact is the horrors are too far away. That Enjolras has suffered is without doubt, but he is safe now in Belgium, and Angers was destroyed, or at least damaged by your efforts.”

Combeferre understood. It was the nature of man to look away.

Now Enjolras stood before him, eyes black with fury. 

“I want to go back to Paris.”

Combeferre wanted to bash his head against a brick wall. Enjolras was passionate and impulsive and full of life, soul and fervour but he was also stubborn as anything and, unusually, was being less receptive to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s combined methods that usually calmed and directed that energy into something more productive.

“We’re not going back to Paris.” Combeferre asserted firmly, his jaw almost grinding in displeasure. “We’re not going back to France, full stop. We’re safe here –” Enjolras threw his arms up in despair, rolling his eyes but Combeferre persevered, trying to keep his voice down and his tone reasonable.

“We can work with Valjean, increase our strength and legitimacy and then work out our next move.” He sighed, taking off his glasses to polish them while Enjolras surveyed him in silence.

“I know it must be frustrating after everything you’ve been through,” Enjolras glared at him.

“Ferre, please. Don’t patronise me,” he retorted, shaking his head in frustration. “You haven’t the first clue what I’ve been through. But it doesn’t matter what they did to me. I care only for France. I want to see her free. I want to see those who subjugate her punished!” He slammed his hands against the desk to emphasise his point. Combeferre stared at him.

“And what of your friends, Enjolras? What of R?” he spoke quietly, looking at Enjolras intently.

Enjolras said no more, storming from the room.

In the end it came down to a vote. Everyone gathered in the small flat, just about fitting them all in. Grantaire leant against the wall, watching everyone else as Combeferre and Enjolras made their arguments for and against returning to Paris.

Marius immediately sided with Combeferre. Nothing on earth would induce him to set foot in France. Joly and Bossuet looked uncomfortable, glancing between their chief and their guide. Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders; it seemed ridiculous to take such pains to leave France only to return when they could stay here in Couvin, build up some strength and then return. Feuilly nodded his agreement.

Enjolras stared at them, his face impassive. Combeferre expected him to set loose with another speech but for once his friend remained quiet. 

“If that is the decision of the room,” he said quietly, eyes flashing over each of them. Combeferre looked over to where Grantaire stood against the wall, arms folded, watching Enjolras intently, his forehead creased with a frown. 

“Combeferre, the room is yours. Les Amis will remain in Belgium until further notice.”

Combeferre was left with the feeling that it had all been far too easy.

Over the next three weeks, Combeferre watched Enjolras warily but the man seemed calmer and more settled. The shouting ceased, replaced with a calm quiet that Combeferre found unnerving. Often, Enjolras was to be found bent over piles of paper at the kitchen table as he wrote down his memories of his incarceration, hoping to have them published in the future, even if it meant bringing their old printing press back into commission and printing it himself. 

Joly gave him sleeping pills to help with the nightmares and Grantaire reported that Enjolras had started taking them, despite earlier assertions that he would never ingest another tablet as long as he lived. They both slept the better for it, mostly because Grantaire no longer felt the need to be constantly awake, to watch over the man who shared his room. He had even been coaxed into making use of the bed on some nights, rather than the armchair, although not often enough for Grantaire’s liking.

All the same, Combeferre had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right and it turned out that his suspicions were justified. One Thursday morning he wandered down the stairs, half asleep, intent on a cup of coffee before going out to get the morning papers when he spotted the door to his office was slightly ajar.

Nothing appeared to be missing, not a piece of paper was out of place and the door to the safe was closed, apparently untouched. Combeferre sighed. Somehow he knew before he entered the code and opened the door that Enjolras’s papers would be missing. He sat back on his heels, staring at the spot they should have been, just as Grantaire stumbled into the room, strangely graceless in the early morning.

“Enjolras –” he started, eyes wide with the shock of having woken alone. His pupils were large, likely a side effect of one of Joly’s sleeping tablets, the only way Enjolras would have been able to slip out of bed without R noticing. Combeferre shuddered that Enjolras was so desperate as to drug Grantaire in order to get away from them.

“He’s gone,” Combeferre confirmed, scratching his forehead as though to fend off the approaching headache.

Fifteen minutes later, Courfeyrac was pouring coffee into mugs as Combeferre sat at the kitchen table, making a list of possible places to which Enjolras might have gone. Grantaire appeared in the kitchen, shrugging into his trench coat.

“He’s going to do something stupid,” Courfeyrac sighed, chewing on his lower lip. Grantaire set his shoulders, a grim expression on his face.

“Not without me, he’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Société des Droits de L’homme - this is the main group of which Les Amis was a subgroup in the brick. 
> 
> I'm sure there must be some angry people out there right now. Enjolras is damaged and angry and acting out right now - he's come back to his life after two years and found that everything has changed and he's been left behind.


	15. In Which R Catches Up With Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras sneaks off to France, but R is on his trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is quite a messed up chapter so;
> 
> trigger warnings for knives, bloodplay, mentions of the non-con drugging the last chapter and (to quote my beta) "general fucked-upness mixed with a shit-ton of feels"
> 
> Enjoy!

Enjolras was crossing into France just as the sun came up. Getting on a train had been easy, the staff barely looking at him as they stamped his papers and issued him his ticket. He settled himself in a carriage, staring out of the window and watching the horizon slip by. Before leaving he had taken one of Grantaire’s hoodies, allowing himself one small piece of sentiment. As he shuffled back into his seat he inhaled deeply, drawing Grantaire’s scent into his lungs as he pulled the sleeves down round his hands, almost forming a protective shell. He dragged the beanie down over his head, trying to hide the blond curls which had started to grow back.

During his imprisonment he had thought so much of what might be going on outside but somehow he had failed to take into consideration that things might change, that his friends might change without him. He hadn’t been forgotten, that much was clear. They were all so painfully delighted to see him. But once the hugs and earnest words had reached their natural conclusions, what remained was an echo of what he had once known. 

There seemed so much more to lose now. The failure two years previously had hit the survivors hard, he could see it in their eyes. He saw how they winced whenever he raised his voice, could hear it in Combeferre’s calming words as he tried to get Enjolras to see reason. The deaths of Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire, even his own death, had hit them all extremely hard and made them more cautious. They didn’t want to lose anybody else and Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to blame them for that.

He couldn’t be happier for Joly. He had always been outraged that his friend’s promising medical career had been brought to a sudden stop just because a member of the faculty at his university had dared to stand up against the IG. Now his friend was settled; he and Bossuet had their house and their life together and Enjolras just couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with them. They had dropped everything to help him escape from Angers with little more than a photograph to go on. 

The very discovery of that photograph was all thanks to Marius. The guy had taken a huge risk to bring that information to Combeferre which had set the wheels in motion for his escape and he would never be able to repay such a selfless gesture. But Marius had moved on from Les Amis. He had carved himself a niche in Antwerp, working for Valjean. Enjolras had been introduced to Cosette on the few occasions she accompanied Marius on his weekend visits. While he didn’t necessarily understand the nature of the attraction, the fact that Marius felt a deep emotional connection with Cosette and that it was returned with equal vigour was evident.

Combeferre had done a good job in his absence, so had Courfeyrac. They had kept the name of Les Amis alive, doing their best to continue in the face of the devastation following the riot. Combeferre was logical and forward-thinking. He had cultivated the relationship with Société des Droits de L’homme, a connection that could have been lost all too easily after Bahorel’s death. The result was that Les Amis was not as Enjolras remembered it. They were no longer on the offensive, aggressively pressuring the IG to listen to them, or to make changes. A lot of their work involved helping get people out of the country, getting them set up in various places that were sympathetic to their cause. Courfeyrac, being the most amiable, did a lot of travelling, trying to fill the gap left by Bahorel with varying degrees of success.

Logically, Enjolras could understand the reasoning behind this new direction and he respected his friends for their efforts. He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected in his absence; he had never planned to be taken prisoner. It had always been assumed that if he was taken he would be executed. Returning to his life after a period of absence was not a scenario he had planned for. That didn’t stop the anger and frustration that coursed through him.

Enjolras did not want to be in Belgium, waiting patiently for a good moment to return. He knew there would never be a good moment. While he understood Combeferre’s reasoning behind the withdrawal, he couldn’t help but feel the sting of defeat. Enjolras had hoped that once the people were aware of what was happening, once they found out that their government was forging the deaths of hundreds of people just so they could experiment on them, he expected there to be widespread outrage. People should be in the streets shouting their anger. There should be an outpouring of condemnation from across the world. He had dared to hope that the country in which he had, however unwillingly, sought refuge might perhaps take action and put pressure on France to admit her crimes and address them.

Enjolras had been sorely disappointed.

There was no room for him in Belgium. He belonged in France. He needed to make France listen and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that from the safety of Couvin.

Enjolras relaxed his hands. Caught up in his thoughts, he had clenched his fists tightly around Grantaire’s hoodie. _Grantaire_.

There was a whole can of emotionally complicated worms. Grantaire had been by his side for nearly half of his life. He had great need of Grantaire; it was an ever-present ache in his chest, but there were other feelings too. He hated the way R looked at him now, his eyes wary and sad, as though expecting Enjolras to fracture at any given moment. 

He saw it in himself as well; the way he had barely let go of Grantaire in his first weeks back from Angers. There had always been a strong pull between them, but this was new, the sensation that to be separated even for a moment would bring the world crashing down around his shoulders. 

Grantaire had never fussed over him before, either; their relationship had been far too full of angles and edges for something so soft. They had always been rough with one another in the most glorious way that Enjolras craved. But now Grantaire treated him like he was glass. Enjolras wasn’t glass; he had been crushed and compressed until he was as hard, cold and as indestructible as a diamond.

There was bitterness too. He had looked to R during the vote, expecting that Grantaire would fall on his side. Grantaire had always been on his side, even when they had disagreed. At their very worst, he had always been assured that Grantaire was with him, to whatever end. Besides, Grantaire had always been one for destroying things more than changing them. He and Enjolras were finally on the same page, for now Enjolras could see that he couldn’t possibly hope to change things as they were. First he would need to destroy, to tear the whole edifice down and start again from scratch. Of all people, he would have thought Grantaire would have been on his side in that.

He had known, standing in that room with everyone looking uncomfortable and concerned that, whatever the outcome, he would be returning to France. But seeing Grantaire’s closed face, his arms folded and lips sealed shut, a cold hollow ache had taken root inside Enjolras. Maybe everything had changed more than he thought. Maybe they had changed.

It had been all too easy to slip Joly’s sleeping tablet into Grantaire’s drink the night before. He could have asked Grantaire to come with him, but he just didn’t want to hear the man say no. More than that, he didn’t want Grantaire to stop him.

Enjolras respected his friends and the democratic decision they had reached not to go back to Paris. So he left Les Amis in the dead of night to pursue his vengeance on his own.

+

Grantaire knew before he had even opened his eyes that something was wrong. The very fact that he had to drag himself to consciousness, when he normally slept like a paranoid rabbit, told him all he needed to know. His head was foggy as he groped his way back to the waking world and he knew, before the room returned to full focus, that Enjolras would be gone.

That bastard.

The absolute devastation on Combeferre’s face had been the very worst thing, secondary even to being drugged. Part of him even vaguely understood why Enjolras had done that to him; he knew Enjolras wasn’t coping with his new reality. He was two years behind everyone else and the world had changed. More than that, things hadn’t been right between them since the final decision to stay in Belgium had been passed. If anything, he blamed himself for not being more vigilant; he should have known better.

But seeing the confusion and bewilderment painted in Combeferre’s eyes, the hurt and surprise that Enjolras had actually left them and had gone to considerable lengths to leave undetected, had hit Grantaire the most. Combeferre had worked tirelessly to keep Les Amis going and they had all fallen over themselves to bring Enjolras home. They deserved better.

There was no question of what to do next. It didn’t take him long to construct his pack, gather as much ammunition as possible and forge a plan of attack. With Combeferre’s help he had a list of possible places to look, as well as a few ideas of his own. With enough money in his pockets to cross the border and a promise to stay in touch, he headed off in pursuit of their absent chief.

+

Apart from returning to Paris, Enjolras had no set plan. He had a few addresses of safe places to go which he hoped were still relevant. At these locations there would be food and weaponry. He didn’t plan to stay in any one place too long. He knew that if he kept moving, kept his trail as cold as possible, he had a greater chance of evading detection, while making plans for his next move.

Despite his efforts, Grantaire found him within two days. In that time, Enjolras had convinced himself that Les Amis were better off without him, that his reappearance had caused them more trouble than he was worth. Poor Feuilly had nearly lost his sight because of him and Marius had been shot! He was grateful for his freedom, but Les Amis had, however unintentionally, left him behind, the group evolving through necessity in order to survive. 

There was a set of rooms in the eleventh arrondissement which Enjolras remembered as having a particularly good armoury. He had approached the building with caution, moving stealthily in the shadows. He was confident that he wasn’t being followed as he entered the street door. The marble staircase was wide and his footsteps echoed loudly. The rooms were on the top floor of the building and he was afforded a clear view both up and down the stairwell and he was satisfied that he was alone.

The door itself was unremarkable; solid wood and green paint with a heavy brass knob. The key was under the doormat and didn’t appear to have been recently disturbed. All the same, he opened the door slowly, his ears straining for any sound. The rooms appeared to be empty, light cracking through the old shutters, whirls of dust dancing in the beams of light that broke through the shadows. Enjolras entered the apartment, closing the door behind him.

As soon as the hand closed around his throat a happy sigh escaped him. He should never have doubted.

Enjolras barely had time to breathe before he was being slammed into a wall, his back protesting slightly. He was locked into place by Grantaire’s forearm spread across his chest, pinning him against the plaster. 

For a moment there was silence as each regarded the other. At first glance, Grantaire’s face appeared like stone, fixed and impassive. But his eyes were a riot of emotion; anger, concern, traces of lust and want, brief flickers before they were buried deep beneath the dark fury that lurked there. Enjolras, for his part, felt ridiculously happy. Grantaire was here. He was here, in this room, had known where Enjolras would be even though Enjolras hadn’t even decided to come here until three hours ago. He was immobilized by Grantaire’s sheer force of will. How could he have tried to leave this behind? Grantaire was always here for him.

Grantaire spat at Enjolras’s feet.

“Don’t you ever,” he hissed, pushing up against Enjolras with the entire weight of his body, “ever drug me again.”

Enjolras stuck out his chin in an act of belligerence, even though the smirk on his face spoiled the effect somewhat.

“I’m not sorry,” he retorted, his lip curling. Grantaire huffed impatiently.

“I know you’re fucking not,” he growled, his forearm pushing even further into Enjolras’s throat, making the blond close his eyes, his entire universe shrinking down to how wonderful it felt, being underneath Grantaire like this. He had felt so lost, so adrift in this chaotic world he didn’t recognise. But this was familiar. This was home.

“Just don’t fucking do it.”

To Enjolras’s extreme displeasure, Grantaire relaxed his grip, stepping back. Enjolras stayed where he was, his back to the wall, watching the man and waiting for his next move.

“Just, fuck Enjolras,” Grantaire reached up, sweeping a hand through his brown curls in frustration, almost snarling. “If you try to do anything stupid without me –”

Enjolras cut him off, his own temper rising. He tried to keep his volume low, aware that this might not necessarily be the safest place for a row, but he still couldn’t help the venom that laced his tone.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter!” he spat in response. “You’ll only try to stop me.”

Grantaire snorted, shaking his head.

“When have I ever tried to stop you doing anything?” he stepped forward again, invading Enjolras’s space. He raised his hands, framing the man’s face, a grounding and comforting sensation. Enjolras couldn’t help but close his eyes at that rough touch against his cheeks. R was right; he had staunchly stood by Enjolras’s side all these years, unfailingly, unflinchingly, down whatever road.

“I am _done_ with living without you,” Grantaire’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper as he rested his forehead against Enjolras, so close that the blond could feel his breath. “I tried and I can’t. I definitely can’t now I’ve got you back.” Enjolras opened his eyes, blue meeting brown. He had missed this so much. 

“So if you are going to do something stupid, we’ll do it together.”

Enjolras allowed them to remain like that for a few moments more, drinking in Grantaire’s scent, the wonderful sensation of skin on skin, the way they slotted together like they always had, until his mind pulled him back to the realities of the situation. With a grunt, he pushed Grantaire and was surprised when the man moved backwards away from him with ease.

“You made your position pretty clear,” Enjolras stated, letting bitterness cloud his tone. “Your silence betrayed you. If you’re on my side why didn’t you speak up when you had the chance?”

He stared challengingly at the man before him, feeling all his insecurities crowd to the fore. Grantaire’s expression didn’t waiver.

“I’m not on anybody’s side, Enjolras. I’m on my side.” Neither man moved, the air too charged, waiting to burst, to explode at the slightest spark.

“No one is against you. Our friends are not wrong to want you safe, to give you the chance to heal, or to give us the best chance of success.”

“I don’t want _safe_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras spat the word as though it left a nasty taste in his mouth. “I thought you, of all people, would understand that.” 

Grantaire stepped forward, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“What _do_ you want?”

Enjolras pulled Grantaire to him then, seizing him in a powerful and possessive kiss, leaning into the other man as though he wished the two of them could become one person. It had always been them. It always would be them.

He allowed himself to be pushed back up against the wall, Grantaire’s hands suddenly everywhere as they pushed and pulled at each other. Grantaire growled as he bit down on the cords of Enjolras’s throat in such a way that was sure to leave a mark but Enjolras couldn’t care, far too happy to be lost in Grantaire’s touch.

“Fuck!” he hissed, as Grantaire bit down on his lip. Relishing in how he was pinned against the wall, Enjolras rolled his hips invitingly.

“I want you to fuck me, R,” he gasped, before attacking Grantaire’s mouth once more. With a barely suppressed snarl, Grantaire slid his hands down to Enjolras’s arse, lifting him up. As the room disappeared from under his feet, Enjolras swung his legs, knotting them round Grantaire’s waist, holding on for dear life.

He was carried through the dusty rooms, through a door which mercifully led to a room containing a bed. Grantaire threw him down onto the bare mattress without much care.

“Strip,” he ordered gruffly, as he shrugged off his coat and began peeling off his own clothes. Enjolras complied, shedding garments in all directions until he knelt naked on the bed. 

Grantaire pulled the leather belt of his trenchcoat free and advanced on Enjolras with a purposeful step. Seizing Enjolras’s wrists, he jerked them above the man’s head, meeting his eyes, silently seeking permission. Enjolras allowed it, not objecting or trying to struggle. With deft movements,   
R knotted the belt around Enjolras’s wrists before fastening it to the bed frame, making absolutely damn sure Enjolras couldn’t break free.

When he sat back on his heels, he stared at Enjolras, stretched out on his back on the bed, looking up at him with blown pupils and a strangely soft yet determined expression. His cock was hard, curving up from his hip and resting against his belly. Aware of his own erection between his legs, Grantaire bent forward, kissing Enjolras with all that was in him, feeling emotions from deep inside come rushing to the surface. He felt Enjolras yield beneath him, stretching up to his touch, attempting to take more.

Lost in the moment, Grantaire ran his thumb lightly over the scar on Enjolras’s neck, coming to rest at the point where his blade had cut into the man’s throat on that first night. Nothing remained of that incident, not so much as a shadow against his skin. He felt Enjolras still beneath him. Raising his gaze, he found Enjolras staring at him intently, eyes burning.

“Mark me.”

Grantaire swallowed at Enjolras’s dark tone, the blond’s voice deadly in the half light of the room.

“Use Jehan’s blade and fucking cut me, R,” Enjolras was breathless, his eyes falling closed as he turned his head into the pillow.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire’s eyes were blown black as he processed what the man beneath him was saying.

“Do it!” This final order came through gritted teeth, Enjolras straining against his bonds. Grantaire growled as he sank his teeth into Enjolras’s neck. He reached down to the strap around his calf containing one of Jehan’s smaller knives. It had a fine blade, very sharp; it would be perfect. He retrieved the knife, seizing Enjolras’s jaw with his left hand, pressing his thumb to the man’s lip.

“You want this,” Grantaire tried not to make it sound like a question as he stared into Enjolras’s blue eyes. “You want me to carve my name into you, mark your body as mine.”

“Yes, fuck, yes, R. I want this,” Enjolras growled, bucking up underneath where Grantaire was draped across him, a clear invitation. Grantaire kissed him one last time before shuffling down Enjolras’s body.

He paused briefly to suck at Enjolras’s nipple, swirling it with his tongue, feeling it grow hard in his mouth. He trailed his fingers down Enjolras’s torso, feeling the hard ribs give way to soft flesh, warm and light beneath his fingertips. With a pop, he released the tormented nipple, sitting back on his haunches and drinking in the sight before him.

Enjolras needed him. They had played such games before, long ago. Whenever Enjolras had suffered a particularly trying day or had one of his more challenging set-backs, Grantaire had tied him and fucked him and brought him back to himself. It made sense now that Enjolras was pushing, was testing this terrifying new world in which he found himself. He wanted to feel the bonds of their relationship constricting tightly around him; who was Grantaire to refuse?

Keeping his eyes fixed on Enjolras, he brought the tip of the knife to the top of the blond’s right hip. Enjolras’s sharp blue eyes watched in fascination as the blade hovered above the skin, his gaze darting to Grantaire as final confirmation of what he wanted. When the blade pressed home, Enjolras almost sighed with relief, his entire body relaxing back against the mattress. His breath hitched slightly as the knife formed the round curve against his skin, before Grantaire made the final cut; a purposeful diagonal line downwards.

Grantaire set the knife down on the mattress before running his thumb in the bubbles of blood that had risen to the surface of Enjolras’s skin. Unconsciously, he raised his fingers, pressing them to Enjolras’s lips which parted eagerly, the man’s tongue darting out to clean Grantaire’s fingers with relish.

“Oh, fuck!” Enjolras exclaimed. “Fuck me, R, please.”

There was a dusty bottle of lube in the drawer of the bedside table and Grantaire made quick work of the prep. Enjolras was keening on the bed, his arms straining against the belt tying him to the headboard. He whined and squirmed, trying to take more of Grantaire’s fingers, drawing them inside him and Grantaire was trembling at just how good Enjolras felt clenching around his fingers. He could only imagine how amazing it was going to feel buried inside him. _Just a few more moments_.

Enjolras was whining and mewling, the cuts on his hip now trickling blood freely, the skin raised and angry. Grantaire tried to remember the last time they had fucked. Since Enjolas’s return they had only fooled around; handjobs, blowjobs, a bit of fingering but nothing more. He hadn’t wanted to push, had wanted to give Enjolras space. But Enjolras hadn’t wanted space.

“Get your fucking cock in my arse right now or so fucking help me –” Enjolras was somewhere between snarling and begging, his legs raised and spread, glaring up at Grantaire as though daring him to disobey. Grantaire smirked at him, slapping the man’s thigh roughly with his free hand.

“You’ll do what, exactly?” he challenged, twisting his fingers inside Enjolras just so, making the man hiss.

But it was too good to drag out. Grantaire wanted to fuck him as much as he wanted to be fucked. Withdrawing his fingers, he ran a bloodied hand, slick with lube, over his cock before lining himself up. Grasping Enjolras’s thighs firmly, he pushed in.

Enjolras cried out, screwing his eyes tight shut, but the sound was more of pleasure than pain. He made a broken noise, clenching his hands around the bars of the headboard as though holding on to reality itself.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck me, fuck,” he murmured, a quiet mantra as he tried to get to grips with everything his body was feeling. Then he opened his eyes, his face free of all the stress and tension that had previously creased his brow.

“Ok,” he sighed. Grantaire took that as his signal to move.

He fucked Enjolras with passion, with desperation and need. He held the man by his hips, aware of the cuts beneath his palm and of the blood that ran warm beneath his touch. They moved together, Enjolras pushing back against him to meet each thrust, groaning and crying out, muttering oaths of encouragement as he lost himself to the sensations. As he sped up, pushing Enjolras’s legs right up until the man was practically bent in two, Enjolras’s volume increased to worrying levels but Grantaire carried on mercilessly, stretching his legs out and balancing on the tips of his toes, hammering into Enjolras, giving it all he had.

Enjolras welcomed him. He shook his legs free of Grantaire’s iron grip, wrapping them round the man’s waist, drawing him deeper inside. 

“Please, fuck,” Enjolras gasped, eyes tight shut. His neglected cock bounced against his abdomen, leaking precome. “Please fucking touch me you sadistic fuck!”

Grantaire smirked, leaning forward to kiss Enjolras. He took the man in hand, jerking him off in time to his thrusts.

“Come on, Enjolras. I want to see you come. You’re so fucking gorgeous all spread out for me,” Grantaire continued his litany of encouragements, fucking hard and deep, not taking his eyes off the face of the man beneath him. Enjolras’s cheeks were flushed pink, his eyelids a soft lavender. With a final whine, Enjolras came, his whole body arching up off the bed.

A few thrusts more and Grantaire suddenly pulled out. Enjolras cried out at the sudden emptiness inside him, but then Grantaire was coming in thick ropes right across his chest, marking him, the thick liquid mixing with Enjolras’s blood and cum.

Enjolras shuddered through the aftershocks, feeling messy and disgusting and entirely owned and grounded and blissfully happy. Through the haze, he felt Grantaire’s tongue explore his navel, licking at the variety of bodily fluids that resided there and Enjolras could only make a happy humming sound as that curious tongue moved across his body and up his chest.

When Grantaire kissed him, it was salty and slightly metallic with the taste of blood, but it was the most delicious kiss Enjolras had ever experienced. He leaned into it greedily, whining when Grantaire pulled away.

“Hush,” Grantaire soothed, making quick work of the knots binding Enjolras to the bed. Once he was released, Enjolras instantly curled into Grantaire, wrapping his arms round the other man as though determined never to let go. Grantaire formed the other half of the puzzle piece, slotting in perfectly against Enjolras’s body, sighing happily as they held each other.

Finally, Grantaire moved away, rolling onto his back, still breathing hard. Enjolras shuffled so that he was kneeling, looking down at Grantaire with intensity. He took up the knife which was abandoned on the mattress where R had left it. Enjolras reached forward, the tip of the blade hovering just above Grantaire’s chest when the man reached out to grasp the handle, his hand curling over the top of Enjolras’s fingers. For a moment the pair regarded each other.

“If you were to plunge this knife into my chest in order to carve out my heart,” Grantaire stared into Enjolras’s eyes, unblinking. “I would help you push it up to the hilt.”

Enjolras smiled, his eyes lighting up with a strange wonder. Grantaire released his hand, relaxing back against the bed, letting his eyes slip shut. He exhaled slowly as the tip of the knife pressed against his skin. 

Grantaire was no stranger to pain, but this was something else altogether. He felt the heat rise to the surface of his body, the burn as his skin parted neatly before the insistent pressure of the blade. First a long vertical incision, followed by three shorter horizontal slashes.

When he opened his eyes, Grantaire glanced down to the patch of skin above his heart, freshly adorned with a bloody E. With an amused smile, Enjolras leant forward, slowly and deliberately licking into the wound, pressing hard with his tongue and making Grantaire hiss. 

When he sat back, they stared at each other with new understanding. Enjolras would always be in Grantaire’s heart, while Grantaire would always be at Enjolras’s side.

+

“General Mouton,” Enjolras’s voice was thick with fatigue. Grantaire grunted to show that he had heard. “I want him.”

“I can get him,” Grantaire replied, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s temple. “Anything else?”

“I want to blow up the Eiffel Tower.”

There was silence for a moment as Enjolras let his words sink in.

“Great. When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god these two are going to be the death of me (that's if they don't kill Sarah first - usual bouquet, chocolate and wine extended to her as my beta)
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me - all yelling welcomed! :)
> 
> (whispers - I think the next chapter might be the last one. but then I thought this would be the last one so it's all open to change... depends on how out of control my word count gets ;-p)


	16. In Which We Find Out A Little More About The Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Mouton was barely thirty when the plagues swept over Europe and France turned her back to the rest of the world. While the rest of the country had struggled to keep its head above water, this young, charismatic figure had quickly risen through the ranks, emerging as the popular face of the New Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Warnings for casual mentions of violence and death (no one important)

General Mouton was barely thirty when the plagues swept over Europe and France turned her back to the rest of the world. While the rest of the country had struggled to keep its head above water, this young, charismatic figure had quickly risen through the ranks, emerging as the popular face of the New Order, willing to step forward and make difficult decisions in order to ensure the safety of France and all that she stood for. Under his benevolent hand he had guided France away from chaos.

Technically he had the mandate of the people, having been voted into power in the elections held five years after the start of the international crisis. That those had been the last democratically held elections in France was a fact usually glossed over by the IG.

In twenty years, the rhetoric had remained more or less the same. He targeted the common man, wishing to raise them up. Only through strength and self-determination would France be able to overcome the difficulties that she faced. He deliberately looked to the past, raising evocative and nostalgic images of French history, of a simpler time before the modern age had taken humanity to the very brink of disaster. Technology, it had been argued, had only ever brought division, anguish and suffering to the world.

At first, there were those who had seriously underestimated the president, presumably because of his youth or his inexperience. What did a young soldier know about politics? Those voices had obviously been reading the wrong books. 

Mouton deliberately courted the image of General de Gaulle, that infamous and great defender of French National Interests. He always appeared in uniform, adopting the title General when he had held no such rank during his service. At first he may well have been a face, a puppet for the army in charge, however time had disabused his doubters of that notion most severely. There were all sorts of rumours, whispers in the shadows, of what happened to those who came up against the General. Dissenters disappeared, never to be spoken of again. Opposition was stepped over with ease. The press only ever spoke his praises and the Gendarmerie and National Guard were at his command.

France had a dictator at her helm but by the time they became aware of the fact, she was too tired, too broken to care.

When voices had been raised in opposition, when protests to the severity of the regime began to emerge, they were stamped on swiftly and very publicly. The people were shown all too clearly what happened to those who tried to take on the might of the IG under General Mouton. Thousands had taken to the streets to peacefully protest, with hope in their hearts that maybe, just maybe they could work together and move forward; that there was room for both the past and the future in France. After hundreds of deaths and thousands of arrests, France knew better; she bowed beneath General Mouton’s will.

+

Grantaire had been an irritant to the government for some time. He came and went, leaving death in his wake. Always a clean job with minimum fuss and few clues. It had taken ten deaths before a link was made with the man with the scar seen in the vicinity by various unwitting witnesses. The Marked Assassin, as he became known by the press, seemed to strike all over France without agenda other than the obvious connections of all his victims to the IG. 

Fifty-six deaths in two years; it was an impressive body count. When Grantaire had first set out he hadn’t expected to get away with quite so many. At first it had been something of a suicide mission. Now that Enjolras wasn’t there to restrain some of his more nihilistic urges and as he was entirely indifferent to whether or not he survived, he had decided to indulge his talents and remove as many members of the IG as possible. The more he got away with, the more it became something of a challenge, to see how much he could achieve before the inevitable happened and he ended having to shoot himself to evade arrest, for he swore he would never be returned to one of those prison camps.

Of course, not all of them had been government representatives; some had been more local-level but all of them had blood on their hands in some form or another. Grantaire liked to research his targets and he had a comprehensive list of their deeds, which he was only too happy to relate to them in the final minutes of their lives before he despatched them, just so they were under no illusions as to why he was there. It wasn’t always possible of course; sometimes it had to be a quick in-and-out job. 

His favourite job had been the one in Le Havre where he had targeted a meeting which had resulted in the deaths of seven members of the Defence Council. They had all been so surprised when he walked in. He had expected one of them to react when he walked in and started picking them off one by one, had thought maybe even one or two might try to run away. But they had all just sat there staring at him, as though they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

The last man had stared at the gun in Grantaire’s hand, the only two beating hearts in the room, the bodies of his comrades all slumped over the mahogany table. He had trembled, his mouth quivering as though he was trying to say something. Grantaire had paused, not out of consideration or to give the man a chance; he waited just long enough for the man to raise his gaze, to look into the eyes of the man who was delivering his death to him today. And then Grantaire had pulled the trigger.

Of course the president had been on his list. It was the bottom of his list, but on his list nonetheless. Grantaire figured if he survived that long then his visit to the president would definitely be his final call. He doubted that the benevolent force that had kept him alive thus far would extend as far as to killing General Mouton. He anticipated getting a bullet through his brain before he even made it to the same floor as the General.

Despite this, he had thought about it and had a rough idea of how he would approach such a job, hypothetically at least. It would require an awful lot of recon and there were the added complications because Enjolras had been very clear; he wanted to pull the trigger and he wanted the General to know about it.

“I want him to watch,” the man had said, that deliciously focused look on his face. “I want him to watch the destruction of Old Paris and I want him to know that it was me. That the future will always win.”

And what Enjolras wanted, Grantaire would always strive to deliver. 

Grantaire contacted Combeferre the day after he caught up with Enjolras. It was a quick conversation, confirming that his target had been acquired and confirming that they would not be returning to Couvin.

“What is it?” Ferre asked, sensing the hesitation in Grantaire’s tone. R had been thinking about this all night but he hadn’t discussed it with Enjolras. He decided to do it anyway because the job was more important.

“I need Boss to come to Paris.”

He waited, eye on the time. There was about fifteen seconds before they would need to terminate the call. He almost expected Combeferre to refuse, to tell him that whatever he and Enjolras were up to, they were on their own. Really, he should have known better. Their Guide might not always agree with the direction their Chief took them, but he would always guide them nonetheless.

“8th Arrondissement. Three days.”

The call ended and Grantaire exhaled slowly. With Bossuet on their side, at least one part of this plan should be a walk in the park. He returned back to their rooms, hardly aware of the warm sunshine on his face, his head full of Enjolras, of the plan and of what the future might hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General Mouton is an actual person - or was. He was the leader of the National Guard in 1832.
> 
> I think we're all agreed after the last chapter that Enjolras and Grantaire are deliciously fucked up in the best, most unhealthiest sort of way. But that we quite like it :)
> 
> I know this chapter was quite short compared tot he usual 4000 words I spoil you with but it really needed putting out there. Don't worry, more will follow!


	17. In Which Plans Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets up with Bossuet and plots are hatched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything in this chapter that needs tagging (although please correct me if you think I should have tagged something)
> 
> This is also unbeta'd (because I'm an impatient so-and-so and I just wanted to get it out there) so all mistakes are mine.

Paris in the early morning sunshine was still beautiful; Grantaire had forgotten. He wasn’t sure how long he had been awake, resting peacefully as he watched the muslin curtains drift lazily against the window, dancing in the slight breeze. The city was waking up; noises of carts on the cobbles and feet upon the pavements drifting up to their window. 

The easterly glow danced across the room, reflecting in Enjolras’s hair and Grantaire wanted to sink his fingers into that finely spun gold. Enjolras looked so peaceful which was an achievement in and of itself. Since their return to Paris, Enjolras’s nightmares had diminished, much to Grantaire’s relief; although he had sat awake that first night watching the man sleep. He told himself it was so that if Enjolras did suffer a night terror then Grantaire would already be awake to deal with it, thus keeping the potential for noise to a minimum. He pretended that it had absolutely nothing to do with the fear that, despite their promises to one another, he was terrified to wake up alone once more; that Enjolras would leave again.

Right now, though, there was no trace of the nightmares that plagued the man that shared Grantaire’s bed. Enjolras rested on one side, angled towards R, his arms folded up against his chest, his breathing deep and even and Grantaire was entranced.

If Grantaire tried really hard, he could pretend that they were just like any other couple lying in bed together. He could run his hand down the warm, smooth expanse of Enjolras’s back, bestow a kiss on those fair shoulders before nuzzling into the welcome crook of Enjolras’s neck, seeking out the delicious heat to be found there. The fair young man would stir, slowly waking up. He would snake his arms around Grantaire, pulling him close. They could fuck lazily, sleepily, with the windows open; their bodies moving like poetry, each line memorised by heart.

They could share an indolent breakfast, perhaps listen to the radio – the government approved stations of course – and eat croissants with jam before sharing buttery kisses as Enjolras went off to work. To do what? Grantaire often thought Enjolras would have done well in law. And Grantaire? The man grinned to himself. He was the kept husband, of course. He would lounge around in their apartment, perhaps he would make Enjolras a surprise dinner and then they could fuck on the dining room table before sharing a shower and collapsing into bed together.

In another life they might have been normal. They could have had that urban domesticity, safe and hazy and dull. No protests, no fighting, no IG. Jehan would have visited them on Saturdays and taken them to the Jardin du Luxembourg and they would have eaten bread, cheese and wine on a red checked picnic blanket, the Parisian heat bearing down upon them.

Enjolras stirred, frowning in his sleep, his nose twitching. Grantaire’s daydreams evaporated as the man shifted onto his back, displacing the white sheet that previously covered him. At his hip, the raised and angry scab of Grantaire’s ‘R’ shone like a beacon. Unconsciously, he reached up to rub at the E above his heart. 

Jehan was dead and there was a job to be done.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, kissing the man awake, starting at his jaw, working up past his temple to the man’s forehead.

Enjolras made a small sound, huffing before finally opening his eyes. For a moment he seemed to content to lie on his back, looking up at Grantaire as though committing him to memory.

“You need to go,” Enjolras muttered eventually. Grantaire replied by kissing him again. For a moment he seriously considered being late to his appointment with Bossuet and taking the time to fuck Enjolras right now, lying so peaceful and relaxed on their bed with the morning sunshine pouring through the window.

“Sure you won’t come?” Grantaire stroked his thumb across Enjolras’s jaw and was delighted when the man allowed such an intimate gesture. Enjolras made a face, snorting slightly. He reached up, splaying his fingers across Grantaire’s chest before pushing him back firmly.

“Enjoy your meeting, R,” he smirked, before rolling over for another snooze.

+

Paris was a lively city first thing in the morning. Grantaire took his time, ambling down the streets, watching as others hurried here and there, clutching fresh sticks of bread from the boulangerie. From the cafés came the strong aromas of coffee as men and women sat outside, reading newspapers and talking amongst themselves. In the bustle of the city, he was able to blend in without disguise. Occasionally he caught people staring, their attention drawn, no doubt, by his scar. But most people kept their eyes on the pavement or simply minded their own business.

He could have taken a bus but he preferred to walk. When Combeferre had said the 8th Arrondissement, what he had actually been referring to was the Corinthe, a café that Les Amis had often used as a meeting point in the old days. It was a quiet establishment with a sympathetic owner. People minded their own business in there, or at least they had done in the past. Grantaire trusted Combeferre to have kept tabs on the place in the two years since Les Amis had been driven underground to Reims and doubted he would send either Grantaire or Bossuet there if it was no longer friendly.

Grantaire had not been idle since his conversation with Combeferre. Already his mind was full of calculations, important lists of facts and other extraneous data that could prove useful. He knew that Enjolras did not expect either one of them to survive this but if Grantaire had his way then both of them would live to tell the tale. It was just a matter of doing everything in the right order.

Naturally, Enjolras had been less than pleased when Grantaire had told him about seeking Bossuet’s input. He had gone on at length about how he had deliberately left Couvin so as not to involve Les Amis. It had been the will of the vote that Les Amis should remain in Belgium for the foreseeable future. This project was to be carried out in Enjolras’s name alone and involving Bossuet was not in keeping with that vision. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire had finally interrupted, grabbing the angry blond by the wrists to restrain him, to make him listen. “I told you I would help you and this is me doing just that. Do you know how much C4 would be required for something the size of the Eiffel Tower? Because I wouldn’t like to guess and get it wrong.”

Enjolras had pouted, honest-to-god stuck out his lower lip, furrowing his brow as he considered. Bossuet was one of those people you wouldn’t trust to look after your cactus but for some amazing reason that nobody quite understood, he seemed to be able to calculate and formulate the perfect amount of explosives required for any given job, usually in his head just by looking at something. So Enjolras had assented to the meeting.

“But you’re going alone,” he insisted, tone dark as he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you think I’m going to fall for any plot to get me back over the border! You want your meeting; you can have your meeting and report back to me.”

Which was why Grantaire wasn’t at all surprised to see Joly sitting with Bossuet at a table in the Corinthe. He smiled as he stepped into the café, the bell above the door jingling merrily announcing his arrival. They embraced as old friends, drawing nobody’s eye before they sat down. 

“On your own this morning?” Joly looked hopefully at the door, as though Enjolras had merely been delayed. Grantaire smirked.

“He seemed to be under the impression that he would be invited to check one of your handkerchiefs for the scent of chloroform, my dear Joly,” Grantaire informed him, tone light and playful. Joly at least had the decency to blush. “Naturally, when he asks I shall tell him that he was quite wrong; that only the Eagle came to meet me.”

They talked of weather and how pleasant it was to walk by the Seine at this time of year, as coffee was brought to them, as well as fresh pastries which they tucked into with gusto. They spoke in riddles, Joly and Bossuet confirming that everyone back in Belgium was quite well, that Feuilly’s sight was no better nor any worse and that he had found employment at a printers which should please him well enough as he had a fair amount of experience in that line of work.

The bill was settled and the three friends strolled out into the streets as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Joly’s cane clacked against the paving slabs as they moved easily between the crowds, making their way down Avenue Georg V towards the river.

“What was it you wished to speak to me about?” Bossuet enquired casually. “Combeferre sounded quite annoyed.” Grantaire quirked a smile, eyes flashing almost with amusement.

“I imagine he wasn’t best impressed when I said we weren’t going back, though I doubt he was surprised,” he replied, deliberately dodging Bossuet’s question. Grantaire stepped off the curb, avoiding the tram rattling along the road as he swiftly crossed towards the bank. They looked south towards the trees on the opposite side.

“As it is, we require your assistance with a little demolition project.” Grantaire grinned broadly, his crooked teeth glinting as he looked pointedly across the river. Bossuet inhaled sharply. His eyes roved over the lattice metalwork stretching up towards the sky.

“Can you do it?” The smile was gone, now, Grantaire’s tone entirely business-like as he watched Bossuet’s face with fascination. He could practically see the equations going on behind the man’s eyes as he estimated and calculated and made judgements.

“Well, I won’t lie,” Bossuet’s voice was throaty and his eyes were wide. “It’s not something I’ve ever considered with any sort of seriousness. But it’s not impossible.”

“We want it clean. Just the structure,” Grantaire was speaking low, now, leaning back against the concrete balustrade. Bossuet was nodding to himself. Neither one of them were paying any attention to Joly whose face had passed through a number of different colours in the past few minutes as understanding had dawned; pale, pink, green, red with purple splotches and finally, once he had breathed deeply from a jar in his pocket, back to its usual colour.

“Shouldn’t be too much of an issue. It’s empty anyway. Night time?” Bossuet tore his eyes away from his project to check with Grantaire who pursed his lips. He and Enjolras hadn’t finalised their own part of the plan yet; first they needed to make sure the Tower part of it was feasible.

“Can I get back to you? If I say one, guaranteed our chief will want the other.”

Bossuet nodded. Then he smiled. It wasn’t like one of Grantaire’s grins; this was one of pure joy, staring up at the Tower as a sculptor would observe a slab of marble, seeing not the stone, but the potential within.

They parted ways, agreeing to meet up in a week to discuss further plans. When Grantaire returned to the rooms where he and Enjolras were currently staying, he found the man in the kitchen attempting to cook. He was frowning at the bubbling pan as though it had personally offended him and Grantaire could not resist slipping up behind him and winding his arms round the man’s waist.

“Well?” Enjolras relaxed back against him, his weight reassuring against Grantaire’s chest.

“All Bossuet’s birthdays arrived at once. We’re meeting again in a week.”

“And Joly?” Enjolras raised a critical eyebrow but he was smiling and Grantaire rested his chin on the man’s shoulder. 

“Sends his regards,” he replied, amused as he remembered Joly’s blush at being caught out. Enjolras wouldn’t hold anything against his friends, not when it was about his safety; he knew he would probably feel similar if the situations were reversed.

Now that plans were being set, Enjolras was feeling far more in control; he felt more at home in his skin now that there was direction and something to work towards. He felt more charitable towards the cautious attitudes displayed by his friends, the distance between Paris and Couvin giving him some perspective. 

Things had changed in his absence, beyond all recognition. But some things remained the same and while Joly’s thinly veiled attempt to coerce him back into the Les Amis fold had sparked his irritation only forty-eight hours previously, now it left him with a strange tug of longing in his gut. His friends cared about him and it pained him that he still needed reminding of that after everything. But that didn’t mean he was about to go back.

After lunch had been consumed, Enjolras made to put his shoes on. Grantaire observed him with amusement.

“Where are we going?” he enquired, eyes following Enjolras round the room as the man gathered together a jumper and his pea coat.

“I thought perhaps you and I could be like everyone else and do something Parisian,” Enjolras stated, not meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “I know the last time we were here we didn’t have the time.”

The words hung heavily between them, both knowing all too well what had happened the last time they had both been in Paris. For a moment Grantaire wondered whether Enjolras intended to return to the Place Charles de Gaulle and the site of their downfall. Something of it must have shown in his face because Enjolras, who previously had been crouched down tying his shoelace, now stood tall and in two strides was at Grantaire’s side, pressing his hand to the man’s cheek.

“R,” he murmured. “This afternoon is about you and I. I was thinking about the Louvre, if you like? Or perhaps Pere Lachaise –”

“Louvre sounds good,” Grantaire cut in, nodding his head for emphasis. He was rewarded with a small smile from Enjolras.

It felt strange to walk down the streets of Paris at Enjolras’s side. Enjolras strode with purpose, a scarf wrapped round his throat, obscuring the scar there and hands jammed in his pockets. His curls which were slowly growing back, bounced in the light wind every time a bus or tram trundled past. This was Enjolras’s city; he could feel the heart beating through the soles of his feet.

Grantaire was a nomad. His centre was constantly moving; his home was wherever Enjolras was. The buildings that surrounded him were no more special to him than those at Reims or Nantes or Marseille. But to Enjolras, these streets were like his arteries.

He couldn’t help but mull over in his mind what Enjolras was trying to achieve. To do something so decadent as to spend an afternoon at an art gallery was not the usual behaviour of the chief. It wasn’t that Enjolras didn’t have an appreciation for culture and the arts; only that he didn’t normally have time for such frivolities.

“What is your game, then? Next target?” Grantaire joked as he jogged to catch up with the blond who scowled at him, brushing a flyaway curl from his eyes, cheeks flushed slightly from their walk.

“Don’t be ridiculous, R,” he admonished, turning his famous glare on the man before him. Grantaire shrugged it off, not to be deterred by such expressions. “Can’t we do something nice for the afternoon?”

Something nice.

He and Enjolras had never done anything nice. They had done nearly everything else, but nice had never featured. Or maybe that was the point of the exercise.

“Ok,” he replied after a moment of further consideration. “Ok, sure. We can do nice.”

So, for one afternoon there was no Angers. There was no Auxxone, no history, no deaths or plans or riots. They were just two guys, possibly friends – Grantaire wasn’t sure how many passers-by would guess they were more than that by the way Enjolras scowled while Grantaire trailed always two steps behind - visiting that centre of French artistic history, the Louvre.

The displays were, naturally, francocentric. Grantaire knew that it had once contained all sorts of works by artists and sculptors from around the world but that these had either been destroyed or, exceptionally, returned to their country of origin. This was the Louvre in Paris, the capital of France. If it wasn’t French it wasn’t here.

Enjolras seemed to move with a purpose, barely glancing at the Matisse as his footsteps echoed through the halls. Grantaire was torn between exasperation and amusement. He knew a lot of Matisse had been lost when the Centre Pompidou had been closed and it was said the few pieces hanging in the Louvre were all that remained in France.

“Have you something against Modern Art?” he muttered petulantly, aware of the way Enjolras’s eyes scanned over Degas, Poussin and Louis Léopold Boilly. If Grantaire didn’t know any better, he would say Enjolras had an agenda. _So much for something nice_.

“Perhaps if you told me what you were looking –” Grantaire cut off as Enjolras jerked to a halt, holding his hand up for silence, an action that, on any other occasion, Grantaire would have ignored. But now he realised what had caught Enjolras’s attention.

“I wasn’t sure if it would still be here,” the man murmured, not taking his eyes off the painting on the wall.

“Did you know they took it down?” Enjolras was breathless, whispering as though afraid of being overheard. “This was years ago. I mean hundreds of years ago,” Enjolras clarified. Grantaire hummed a non-committal tone, vaguely aware of the story. “They were afraid of it, that somehow a piece of artwork would inspire the people to rise.”

He looked over to Grantaire with a said smile on his face, reaching out his hand. Grantaire took it automatically, squeezing it slightly, enjoying the weight of it in his grasp.

“They didn’t, of course.”

Grantaire said nothing. It was a painting, nothing more. It was a relic of time and history; one more thing that the establishment clung to on their endless mission to reaffirm their present by the actions of the past. He admired the technical execution behind what was, unquestionably, a powerful image. But in the end it was an amalgamation of crushed paper covered in pigments, resins and solvents.

“How does something considered revolutionary become part of the establishment?” Enjolras finally turned, looking up at Grantaire with some indescribable emotion on his face. Grantaire squeezed his hand.

“They live too long,” Grantaire replied. “They live to become what they hate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes of course they're looking at Liberty Leading the People.
> 
> Currently there isn't any Matisse at the Louvre, however in this verse the Centre Pompidou (which is the centre for Modern Art) was closed as part of the measures put in place by the IG.
> 
> For anyone not yet aware, there's another side-fic - For Always - which takes a closer look at Jehan and R's friendship, as well as filling in some gaps regarding Enjolras & Grantaire.
> 
> Please do come and yell at me either in the comments or on tumblr - i do love hearing from you!


	18. In Which Heroism Becomes Monstrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire continue with their plans while General Mouton has trouble sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence and character death

It took a month for them to plan exactly how to get to General Mouton. Grantaire was of the opinion that the whole thing would have been a lot easier except that Enjolras wanted to turn it into a glorious gesture. Unlike previous jobs, this would not be a quick press of the trigger. Enjolras wanted to make a point.

Of course, the most dangerous thing you could do when killing someone was to give them the time to work out an escape. The combination of perfect timing and the element of surprise was what had kept Grantaire alive over the past two years. In some cases it had been insultingly easy to just walk into an allegedly high-profile politician’s domicile and blow out their brains. A lot of it was down to arrogance; these people felt they were untouchable and so had nothing to fear. Grantaire felt just as untouchable. When he thought he had nothing left to lose he took greater risks, making hits he otherwise wouldn’t have touched if Enjolras had still been there to direct him.

Even after it became apparent that there was a marked man carrying out shootings across France, there remained an element of “not me” within the IG. Nearly all of his targets had been so surprised in their final moments; in some cases they had been completely crushed that actually, someone would dare to just walk in and kill them.

But neither Enjolras nor Grantaire believed for one moment that General Mouton would be an easy kill. He was the president and breaking through the tight circle of protection and trusted persons that surrounded him was going to be a challenge.

Bossuet, in the meantime, was having the time of his life. He was giddy with such a project and was taking his job very seriously. Grantaire and Bossuet had met up twice more since their initial meeting and plans were well underway for breaking into the Tower and setting the charges.

The plan had been made unexpectedly easier by the fact that the Eiffel Tower had closed its doors to tourists over fifteen years ago in a wave of fear that it would be targeted by terrorists. It was not Enjolras’s plan to target the people of France; it was the symbol of the tower that needed to be brought down, humbled and destroyed. 

Grantaire handed over the full running of that part of the plan to Bossuet. It was he who had all the connections, who could make the calculations and could arrange for the charges to be in place as and when Enjolras and Grantaire required. He merely needed twenty-four hours’ notice.

In the meantime, Grantaire was fully caught up in the logistics of getting Mouton where Enjolras wanted him. Enjolras had explained in exceptional detail exactly how he wanted it to go down. It went against everything Grantaire knew about making a hit. It should be quick, efficient and thorough. Don’t give your target a chance to talk, or fight back or even realise what’s going on. Just send them into the next world before they realise they might be about to leave this one.

“I want him to know, R,” Enjolras explained for the hundredth time, teeth set and eyes blazing and _oh god_ R just wanted to throw him down and fuck him when he used that voice.

“I want his last thought to be that he lost.”

All Grantaire had to do was get Mouton where Enjolras wanted him.

+

General Mouton was not a happy man. Outside his window, Paris rumbled away as it always had; traders sold their wares, pilgrims lit candles at Notre Dame and old men sat in cafés, drinking cognac and arguing. Everything seemed strangely peaceful and it set the General’s teeth on edge. 

It was over four months since the incident at the Angers complex, when he had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a nervous-looking guard who had advised him that there was a “possible breach” at one of the facilities in the south. Little had he known that it was to be the start of four months of sleepless nights.

Enjolras was alive.

Mouton was furious that he had been kept in the dark about that. When someone calling themselves Enjolras had attempted to shine a light on the testing program taking place at various locations throughout France, Mouton had assumed it was an imposter using a familiar name. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Enjolras was a byword for protestor, for rebellion. It was a word whispered on the wind as code for illegal activities. Most fake names given to arresting officers involved the E word. There had always been a danger of creating a martyr but he had signed the man’s death warrant nonetheless.

It had been embarrassing to discover that the leader of Les Amis was very much alive.

Mouton thought he had been very clear about what was to happen to the ringleaders of the Paris riots. Enjolras should have been hanged. According to all sources, that was exactly what had happened. There were even signed witness testimonies from people allegedly in the room when it had happened. He wanted the author of that lie found and shot.

To discover that Les Amis were still active, that they had managed to find Enjolras and secure his release, was even worse. On top of that, Enjolras was free and shouting with the whole world apparently a captive audience, yet nobody was able to tell him exactly where the man might be at this precise moment.

Then it had all gone quiet. If there was one thing Mouton hated more than an enemy making noise, it was an enemy keeping silent. It was better the wasp you could hear in the room; all the better to squash it before it stung you. But since the publication of his tale in various international papers and the expected outcry, there had been nothing. The lack of activity was painful.

In addition to all of that, a situation in Reims had been brought to his attention. A high profile Level Three administrator had suddenly disappeared and the General did not believe in coincidences. It was still unclear whether or not the administrator in question was a traitor or a spy but it made his blood boil to think she had been buried so deep within the system for so long, undetected.

Just that morning, a report had been put on his desk that the administrator had written just prior to her disappearance. It related to the Marked Assassin in the specific context of Angers. He had no doubts that most of it was fabricated bullshit, that the entire report had been a cover after a suspicious SD came close to truth, flushing the administrator out of her hole and into hiding. However, he was determined to read it in case he could decipher some clues between the lines as to the intention of the administrator. To mention Angers so explicitly; it was clear she was involved in the breakout. It was a matter of conjecture as to whether the Marked Assassin was also embroiled in this whole messy situation; perhaps the report might contain some insights.

The General yawned, an action he found to be irritating. Mouton was not used to feeling sleepy after supper. Usually he stayed awake late into the night, reading papers and making notes for meetings the following day. He found it easier to think at night. He stared at the report on his desk, trying to weigh up whether he could make his way through it. He picked it up with determination, placing himself in his favourite chair, the window open so that a cool breeze scattered across his face. It was all in vain. After two pages it was clear he wasn’t taking any information in. After reading a paragraph three times without it making any sort of sense, he threw down the report and retired to his chambers for a sleep.

+

The General employed foolish and careless staff. They had a terrible habit of planning out his meals for the week and attaching the menu to the noticeboard in the kitchen where any tradesman presenting themselves at the door might see it. The back door was frequently left open so that the kitchen cat could come and go as it pleased, hunting for mice. 

The door to the wine cellar was never locked as one never knew when the General might require a merlot or a cabinet sauvignon or perhaps a rioja, especially with cheese. These bottles were left to air and come up to temperature for at least half an hour before dinner was served.

A few drops of sleeping powder did not alter the taste of the wine served at dinner. It ensured that the President was snoring deeply when Grantaire emerged from the shadows. It also meant that any staff who had snuck a drop of the President’s special wine, as well as anyone who had shared a glass over dinner, was also sleeping soundly and so not able to bear witness to the bodily removal of the General from his bed chamber and up to the attic rooms not used by the rest of the household.

+

The General blinked several times, his head pounding and eyes refusing to focus as he tried to work out where he was. He was restrained, that much was clear; his arms were bound behind him, crossed at the wrists, with ropes that wound up his forearms to his shoulders. His legs and ankles were secured to the chair beneath him.

The sides of his mouth ached against a gag which was soaked in his spit. He tried to take stock of his surroundings, his military training kicking in, forcing his mind to focus. There was no point struggling against his bonds; he could tell they were secure with absolutely no give in the ropes which were already burning against his wrists where his unconscious body had pulled on them.

As the room swam into focus, he became aware of a man sitting cross-legged on a box, watching him keenly from across the room. The man’s chin rested on his palm, fingers drumming against his cheek as he considered the General, head on one side. It was then that Mouton noticed the scar and he gasped around his gag because he suddenly knew who it was who sat before him. The Marked Assassin smiled.

For a moment, Mouton’s head swam. He tried to work out where he was. He had been drugged, although he wasn’t sure how. He appeared to be in some sort of attic room with a small window set into the gables; a former servant’s quarters perhaps. Through the grimy glass he could make out the echo of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It meant he wasn’t the far from his home. For some reason that thought gave him comfort. He wondered how he had been removed from his chambers. Surely someone in his building would have noticed the body of the General being removed by this man!

To his surprise, the Assassin unfurled himself from his perch, his movements slow and fluid. To the untrained eye, the man appeared relaxed and at ease but Mouton was not fooled. This coiled spring was not at rest, it was merely waiting.

In two strides he was across the room. A blade flashed and the General, for all his age and training and rank, he couldn’t help but flinch as it approached his face. For a moment he was convinced the man had slashed him, but then the gag suddenly fell away, the fabric cut through in one swift movement. Mouton spat it out onto the floor. 

The Assassin was close now, studying the General intently, as though waiting for him to make a move in a complicated game of chess that Mouton did not fully understand. He had assumed he was gagged so that he did not draw attention to their situation either by shouting for help or by making noise under duress. At that thought his eyes flickered to the knife still in the Assassin’s hand.

Now that his mouth was free for him to shout and scream and bellow, he could only assume there was no one to hear him. He remained silent while he considered his next move.

The man waited, completely still in front of him, his face reflected in the light of an oil lamp set off to the side. Mouton considered that, despite the hideous scar running down one cheek, the man was actually quite young. He couldn’t help but wonder what had driven his captor to the life he now led.

“You’re not going to kill me,” the General blinked, surprised at the words that tumbled from his mouth almost unbidden. His statement, which was delivered in a surprisingly steady voice given the circumstance, seemed to amuse the Assassin.

“What makes you say that?” the man enquired in a soft voice, licking up the edge of the blade in his hand. Mouton suppressed a shudder, unable to stop himself from thinking of all the others who had died at the hands of the man who stood before him. It was likely that face, that voice, was the last thing they saw and heard in this world. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“Because you don’t play with your food and leopards don’t change their spots.”

The Assassin stuck out his lower lip as he shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal motion, twirling the blade in his hands, his expression unreadable. All his movements were careful and deliberate, apparently casual, which only served to put the General even more on edge.

“You shouldn’t mix your metaphors,” the man purred, tossing the knife so that he held it by its handle and running the flat of it down the side of the General’s face. Mouton suddenly felt cold. He wasn’t used to feeling fear but judging by the sudden increase in his heartbeat, it was fear that now crept across his skin. He attempted to maintain a steady pattern of breathing. All he needed to do was keep his head, keep this crazed fool talking. He would be able to think it way out of it because sooner or later people like this Assassin made mistakes. All he had to do –

His train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt as the man suddenly chuckled, pulling away from him, a smirk painting his features. The scar that ran down his face distorted the smile into something sinister.

“You’re right, of course,” he spoke lightly, carelessly. “I’m not going to kill you.”

The General paused, somewhat uncertain as the man before him smiled even wider before gesturing over Mouton’s shoulder.

“But he will.”

Mouton craned his neck, all attempts at calm breathing abandoned. He hadn’t even realised there was another person in the room. In the dim light he could barely make out the form of another, standing in the shadows behind him.

“Who are you? Show yourself!” he demanded, temporarily forgetting his former fear. Obligingly, the shadow stepped forward.

The youth that stood before him appeared even younger than the Assassin. Mouton’s mind reeled as he tried to remember everything he had read about the Assassin. He was certain he had never heard anything to indicate that there might be an accomplice. There had been theories, of course, that there might be a copycat killer out there, especially in the rare instances where the modus operandi had changed significantly, but otherwise it was generally agreed that this particular serial killer operated alone.

“I have found you guilty and sentence you to death.”

The General snorted contemptuously. He did not consider this person, this boy that stood before him, to be a threat. He was tall, to be sure, but his shoulders and hips were narrow verging on the feminine. He wore a scarf around his neck which the General noted might be useful to grab if he could his hands free.

“Who are you to find me guilty of any such thing?”

Any fear he had felt in the presence of the Assassin had evaporated. These were boys, amateurs. They had been lucky in the past, falling upon lesser men who had been easily tricked by whatever means. They would not be so lucky this time. 

The youth stared at him with powerful blue eyes and Mouton could not help but stare back, falling silent as his sudden flush of certainty fell away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving an uneasy quiet in its wake.

“I am Enjolras.”

The General started slightly and the Assassin could not hold back his smile. 

“I am France,” Enjolras advanced upon him like some terrifying angel. “I am every citizen who fell under your orders whilst protesting peacefully.” 

The General’s mind reeled as he tried to connect Enjolras and the Paris riots and the breakout at Angers with the scarred man that stood back, a man he knew for a fact had been killing all the time Enjolras had been imprisoned. He found himself, somewhat ridiculously, wishing he had read that damned file.

“I am every experiment that went wrong and ended up in a watery grave.” 

Enjolras held out his hand, not taking his eyes off the General in front of him. In a swift movement, the Assassin furnished him with a blade. Enjolras moved behind him and for a moment the General thought he felt the ghost of a blade against his throat. He braced himself for the end; instead, he found his bonds cut. Before he could take advantage of his sudden freedom, strong hands pressed on his shoulders.

“On your knees,” Enjolras declared and, with an imperious motion, forced the old soldier out of the chair and down. Mouton, finally seizing hold of his own senses, attempted to resist but Enjolras appeared to be a man possessed. With his dishevelled hair and blazing eyes he was the face of justice, forcing the General down. Mouton, exhausted from being drugged and with pins and needles coursing through his arms and legs, had little choice but to kneel at the blond god’s feet.

Enjolras stared down at him, face impassive. 

“You have one minute to make your peace.”

The General stared at him uncomprehendingly before glancing across to where the other man stood, arms folded across his chest, watching his every move. Similarly, Enjolras never took his eyes off him.  
Silence hung heavy in the room and soon the man could not stand it.

“I will pardon you!” he blurted out. Perhaps he would have been embarrassed at his tone, but it was quite clear to him that Enjolras meant every word and the other man was just going to watch it happen. Every man had a price. He refused to believe that his life would end in this dirty room.

“I’ll give you a high position, any and all money that you want. What is it that you want? I will give it to you” he begged. Enjolras clicked his tongue in annoyance, shaking his head.

“I want France to be free,” he replied, gazing steadily at the cowering man at his feet. Abruptly, the blond turned, moving to stand beside the window.

“Tell me, General, do you know why the Eiffel Tower was built?”

The Assassin made a warning noise in the back of his throat but Enjolras ignored him, his sharp blue eyes staring intently at the man on his knees on the floor. The General was dumbfounded, confused by the question. But in it he saw a chance. If he could keep this Enjolras talking it might buy him some time. He felt a twitch of hope spark as he shook his head.

“It was built to celebrate the centennial of the French Revolution,” Enjolras’s voice was soft yet firm, as though he was a teacher educating a particularly troublesome student. “It was a symbol of the future of engineering in this country,” Enjolras began to pace, gesticulating with his hands. For some reason, Mouton found it hypnotic.

“It was a glorified pylon, supposed to stand for 20 years but,” Enjolras paused, turning to face the General, “it was so useful that it remained. At one point it was the tallest man-made structure in the world.” 

Mouton had absolutely no idea what Enjolras was talking about. He failed to see the relevance of the Eiffel Tower to the immediate situation. But then terrorists were generally not renowned for their sanity. Enjolras had been imprisoned at Angers and the General knew roughly the sort of things that had gone on there. This was a damaged young man and he fully intended to take advantage of that for as long as he could. Enjolras sighed.

“Now it is a relic,” his voice dropped, his tone filled with tremulous emotion. For a moment, Mouton marvelled at his oratorical skills. He could see how the boy before him had whipped up the crowds of Paris into such a frenzy. 

“No longer the future, but a symbol of the past. A physical representation of the metaphorical shadow that shrouds this country.”

Just then, the most terrific explosion sounded. The whole building shook, windows rattling, almost knocking Mouton off his knees, hands braced against the floor to keep him steady. Enjolras did not turn, instead choosing to look at the man at his feet. 

Mouton’s eyes were suddenly drawn over the man’s shoulder to the window where the previously dark night sky was now orange. As he craned his neck, he saw a large ball of fire heading towards the heavens, plumes of smoke rolling in all directions. _The Tower_.

“Do you understand now?” The sound of Enjolras’s voice drew him back to the present moment and he stared up in disbelief.

“Paris will burn to the ground and from her ashes a new world will rise with sturdy foundations.” Enjolras’s eyes were shining, as though he could see the future physically advancing toward him. Mouton suddenly realised that it was over; he would never leave this room.

Seeing his prey’s acceptance in the slump of his shoulders, Enjolras advanced upon him. 

“The future is not for me,” Enjolras murmured quietly. “I merely facilitate the passing of the old world. But the next century will be so much better.”

Enjolras ran the back of his hand down the side of Mouton’s face in a macabre caress.

“How ironic,” the avenging angel muttered, almost to himself. “You were right to fear the future.”

Just then the shadow behind him shifted, the Assassin stepping forward, gun in hand. He passed it to Enjolras who did not take his eyes from the General, even as he removed the safety, pressing the muzzle against Mouton’s forehead. The metal was cold against his skin as he forced himself to stare into the eyes of the young killer above him. 

“Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité,” Enjolras pronounced slowly, his eyes unblinking. “Oú la mort.”

The gun sounded and the General slumped to the ground, the body twitching in its final death throes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, it wasn't intentional, but it's quite obvious that I've been heavily influenced by V for Vendetta here. To the point where I feel more comfortable saying it out loud rather than being accused of plagiarism. There are undeniable parallels here, so please accept this as my official nod to the graphic novel as well as the film. 
> 
> I was intending this to be the last chapter but, well, yes there's at least one more chapter in this yet.
> 
> By the way I am SO SORRY for how long this took me. It's been awful, the past few weeks. I haven't written a word. This was sitting on my laptop in pieces as shambolic ideas scribbled down but I finally broke through the barricade of writer's block!
> 
> I'll try not to make you wait as long for the next bit.
> 
> All yelling welcomed! I love your comments - they make me smile.
> 
> Usual thanks to Sarah for listening to me moan and groan and looking over it for me.


	19. In Which Tomorrow Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire celebrate their success while the others wait for news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter folks!
> 
> I don't think there needs to be tags here for anything but please let me know if you disagree.

Enjolras lowered his gun, using the toe of his boot to roll the twitching body at his feet onto its back. For what felt like the first time in years, Enjolras exhaled and it didn’t hurt. He took another breath and it hit him suddenly that he was now breathing and existing in an uncertain world. Mouton was dead. Outside the window, the Eiffel Tower was burning; a beacon in the sky for the whole of France to witness. Was it hope? It could be. Tomorrow was unwritten and that felt amazing.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist and rough lips brushed against the back of his neck just below his ear; the sensation grounded him.

“You did it. Holy fuck, you actually did it.” Grantaire’s breath ghosted over the shell of his ear, the sound of his voice the most beautiful thing ever created. Enjolras relaxed into Grantaire’s arms. The man behind him pressed close, hips flush against the gentle camber of Enjolras’s arse.

“You talk too much for this job,” teeth pulled gently at Enjolras’s lobe. “You gave him far too much time to form an escape plan. Just as well he was so enamoured with your voice. We should have left as soon as the Tower went up.” Grantaire gently chided. “Otherwise I’d fuck you right here.”

To reinforce the point, Grantaire rolled his hips and Enjolras groaned, eyes slipping closed, getting lost in the sensation of Grantaire at his back, at the new reality he found himself in.

That was the secret to the success of this mission and it had been Joly’s idea; the way to kidnap the President of France was to not kidnap him at all. No need to come up with elaborate plans to get the President to some secure location. Simply remove him to an attic room in the same building. It was a good mix of compromise; getting Enjolras what he wanted whilst accommodating what Grantaire was used to. 

Presumably staff would already be attempting to rouse the President from his sleep to alert him to the situation at the Tower. They would find his body soon enough.

“The roof,” Enjolras murmured.

+

The night air was like a slap in the face, making the events of the past few hours even more real. Grantaire had climbed up first, reaching down to haul Enjolras up after him. In the background, a distant roar sliced through the usual gentle grumble of the city. A fire was raging in the city and there, on the roof of the late President’s building, they had the best view.

“Take a good look, E,” Grantaire leant against the concrete, his own eyes set upon the man at his side. “This is what you’ve been working for, what we’ve always wanted.”

“What _you’ve_ always wanted,” Enjolras murmured, the fire reflecting in his eyes. “Paris is burning.”

Enjolras’s face was impassive, although after a few moments of silent contemplation he began to chew on his lower lip. His eyes flashed over to Grantaire before he broke into a grin. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of Grantaire’s leather coat and with amazement he realised he could feel again. The cotton wool had fallen away; the bell jar that had surrounded him for so many years had suddenly been smashed and all the sensations flooded in at once. 

There was an acrid taste to the air but his lungs were filled with the scent of the man in his arms; leather, smoke, a hint of the soap from the rooms they were using. Grantaire wrapped him up entirely, consuming him. In the sharp shadows cast by their work, they kissed, their bodies moving together until Grantaire had him pushed right up against the edge, concrete digging into Enjolras’s back.

With a small whine, he was torn from Grantaire’s lips as the man spun him round sharply so he was facing the city. Automatically he reached out, his hands clutching the rough surface of the roof edge. He shuddered as teeth imprinted through his shirt into his shoulders while impatient hands held his hips.

“R,” he murmured, eyes still closed, relishing the touches of clever fingers at his waist. There was an answering growl. 

“If these weren’t your last pair of trousers,” R threatened and Enjolras moaned out loud because he knew Grantaire’s favourite thing was to slice Enjolras out of his clothes. It was quicker than wasting time with buttons.

All the same, he made no move to help as Grantaire dealt with the barrier between him and what he wanted. A rough hand between his shoulder blades pushed Enjolras forward so he was bending at a better angle, just where Grantaire wanted him. A few minutes later, with his trousers shoved down by his thighs, there were familiar fingers working between his cheeks.

Enjolras groaned, rolling his head back because Grantaire’s fingers were slicked, not with spit or Vaseline or oil or some other makeshift lube; Grantaire, the perfect bastard, had come prepared. 

“Open your eyes,” Grantaire whispered, just as the first finger breached Enjolras’s hole. Enjolras’s fingers curled and he scrunched his eyes closed even tighter.

“Enjolras,” the finger moved inside him, making Enjolras gasp. “Enjolras, open your eyes.”

Paris was ablaze and the future was waiting for them. 

Enjolras looked over the city, his city; the streets which were his arteries and the river which had continued to flow while everything else tried to stay the same. He shifted as he was stretched, Grantaire pressed up behind him, kissing and nipping along his clothed shoulders. It was affectionate and loving, each touch careful and gentle. It had never been like that before.

His fingertips were raw as Enjolras clutched at the roof edge, crying out as Grantaire finally pushed inside him and it was a golden moment. Fuck, he needed this. Grantaire was everything to him.

“Look what you did,” Grantaire groaned, thrusting up inside, hands clamped tight on Enjolras’s shoulders, holding him in place as he fucked him, the world at their feet.

“I always knew you could. I always fucking knew.”

They said nothing more, only moaning into each other’s mouths as Enjolras twisted to reach Grantaire over his shoulder. Their movements became more frantic, Grantaire pushing Enjolras flat until his chest was flush against the concrete, savouring the change of angle. The gentle atmosphere evaporated and all Enjolras could do was hold on, giving himself over to the sensation of being fucked senseless, feeling his orgasm barrelling towards him as Grantaire fucked him hard.

When they came, shuddering and gasping, Enjolras knew that this was where he belonged.

+

Combeferre stared out of the window, the paper abandoned on the dining room table. It was a little after eight o’clock in the morning and the day was barely begun. Usually the radio would be on, prattling in the background, filling the silence until Courfeyrac rose from his bed. But not today. This morning, Combeferre sat in silence.

When Courfeyrac did emerge, stumbling in with hands trying to straighten his hair and eyes only open enough to seek out his first coffee of the day, he afforded Combeferre a grunt as he made his way to the kitchen. Combeferre didn’t move, apparently oblivious to everyone around him. Courfeyrac switched on the radio, humming slightly to a familiar tune as he waited for the kettle to boil. Having secured his coffee, he returned to the dining room and slumped down into the opposite chair.

“So what’s new?” he yawned, before taking a gulp from his mug.

“Mouton is dead.” 

If Courfeyrac hadn’t seen Combeferre’s mouth move with his own eyes he would have sworn that he had hallucinated those three words. He stared at the man before him, mug raised half way to his mouth.

“What do you mean?” he stuttered, mind shutting down. How could Combeferre be so calm? 

He took stock of the man before him; how Combeferre was sitting in his seat by the window with his pot of tea and mug set out in front of him like every other day, staring out into the almost empty Belgian street where they lived. He followed Combeferre’s gaze to a woman leading two small children down the road; they were dressed for school and one was dragging their feet while the other skipped merrily beside her, book bag in hand.

“I mean,” Combeferre cleared his throat, “that three days ago the President was assassinated at his home in the centre of Paris. The Eiffel Tower has been destroyed. There are riots; people in the streets, chaos and disorder. The city is in lockdown. The borders have been closed. France is awake, and she is angry and frightened and lashing out.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac muttered and at the mention of their friend’s name, Combeferre seemed to wake up, his head jerking to finally meet Courf’s eyes.

“The news broke here this morning,” he nodded to the abandoned paper on the table. “The press are calling it the Révolution Populare.”

The two of them sat in silence together for a moment, each lost in thought. The world had changed significantly and they hadn’t even been aware of it. Courfeyrac’s mind strayed to his friends; to Enjolras and Grantaire and how they had parted in less than positive circumstances. Also Joly and Bossuet; if the revolution had started three day ago, what had become of them?

“I should have known,” Combeferre said flatly, looking away, reaching forward to poor himself another cup of tea from the pot. “When R asked for Bossuet I should have known something like this would happen.” 

Courfeyrac flinched as Combeferre slammed the pot down violently on the table, the only sign of the seething anger and frustration within. 

+

“Any news?”

Feuilly knew better than to ask while Combeferre was in the room. Both he and Courfeyrac shot a nervous glance towards the kitchen where Combeferre was washing up, both pointedly ignoring the fact that their friend had been scrubbing the same dish for five minutes now.

“Not a word.” Courfeyrac replied in a hushed whisper.

The borders into France had been closed since the news of the new revolution broke. After nearly a month of reports of what could only be described as a civil war, preparations were being made to send in a special armed patrol made up of British, Belgian, Dutch, Danish and German soldiers to try to restore a sense of order and peace. 

The news that trickled through into Belgium was meagre at best. Paris was in complete lockdown where the fighting was hardest. There was a clear division in the population; those who wanted to maintain the old order after the death of the General and those who didn’t. No one was quite sure which side was winning.

The revolutionaries had organised themselves quickly, forming a group called the LEF, a reference to the leaflet that had been distributed soon after the events in Paris detailing the last moments of the General and the final words given to him before his swift despatch. One of those leaflets had found its way into Combeferre’s possession thanks to Eponine who had managed to smuggle one out of Antwerp for him. He had tacked it to the wall in his office, the only sign that Enjolras had survived his encounter with the General. It was an indication that he had, at least, lived long enough to find and operate a printing press.

However, the pamphlet was the only evidence of Enjolras’s existence and involvement. It had been over a month, with fragmented reports of heavy losses on both sides in the fighting that followed; no one had heard anything more. Combeferre couldn’t even be sure that Grantaire was still with him. All he could do was hope.

It was as though they had fallen through time back to those awful months just after the Paris Riots. Combeferre’s every waking moment was spent planning and organising, contacting friends and sources in the hope of news. Additionally he was helping Valjean and the Société des Droits de L’homme. There were lists of refugees, of sponsors and charities to help with the increasing humanitarian crisis. 

Joly and Bossuet remained unaccounted for, in addition to Enjolras and Grantaire. Combeferre stayed in Couvin as a focus point for contact while Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Eponine attempted to find out as much information as possible, travelling to speak to people face-to-face in order to get verbal accounts rather than third-hand retellings. All to no end.

Feuilly was back after a trip to Brussels where he had been meeting a contact in the Belgian army about possible plans to enter France by force. He had been away for two weeks and hoped that maybe some news had been heard. Courfeyrac’s frown was answer enough; still no word.

+

Joly and Bossuet appeared out of nowhere after a further three weeks. By complete chance, Courfeyrac was home and had been the one to answer the front door. Joly greeted him cheerfully with a smile while Bossuet had waved over Joly’s shoulder as though they had merely popped by for a routine visit and hadn’t been missing for nearly two months.

Combeferre was drawn to the hallway by Courfeyrac’s cry of shock and when he clattered towards the front door he saw Joly’s almost purple face where Courfeyrac was gripping him hard in a desperate hug.

“They let us cross over this morning,” Joly explained, once everyone had calmed down enough to sit down and let the pair speak of their adventures. Combeferre had already contacted Antwerp, leaving a message for Eponine and Marius about their friends.

“It helped that I had my medical license with me. We’ve been in a camp on border for five days in some sort of quarantine.”

Combeferre’s eyes flashed at topic of holding camps but Joly waved his hands.

“Wrong choice of words perhaps; more like a barracks. With the borders closed, the army have set up camps for displaced persons. Just a bed and someplace to be until they come up with a plan.”

Joly had been lucky. By having his Belgian medical papers on him he managed to convince the people running the camp that they had simply been caught up in the revolution whilst on a routine job over the border. Bossuet, of course, didn’t have any medical papers but Joly successfully argued that his had been lost in the chaos. Eventually they had received permission to pass through to Belgium.

“It’s unbelievable over there, Ferre.” Bossuet said gravely and Joly nodded in agreement. “Everywhere you go has red paint on the walls. Every little village has its heart splashed vibrantly so you know which side of the line you’re on. _Dans la Rue, Vive la France, Liberté ou la mort_ ; all the old slogans.”

“Enjolras and Grantaire are still missing,” Combeferre said after a moment of contemplation. Joly and Bossuet nodded sagely. 

“Everything has been destroyed, Ferre.” Joly was obviously trying to be reassuring. “What was left of the communications network has been torn down. Paris is a no-go area. It’s like the plagues are back.”

“Under siege?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning forward with interest. They were starved of information relating to Paris and they were desperate to hear all they could. Bossuet shook his head, a wry smile on his face.

“Keeping people out; defending her borders. The authorities don’t want anyone to know because they haven’t decided whose side they’re on yet, but Paris has been under revolutionary control since the start.” Bossuet grinned wide. “I reckon we were the last ones out before it all kicked off.”

+

Valjean finally convinced Combeferre to come to work for him in Antwerp when he promised that he could get Combeferre into France at the first opportunity. Combeferre had been unwilling before, not wanting to be seen to abandon Les Amis, but there was only so much that could be achieved while Valjean’s team was in a much stronger position. Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet all spoke in agreement about it; Ferre would be of greater help to Enjolras, should Enjolras or Grantaire ever resurface, with Valjean’s team in support.

It had been strange, at first, answering to someone else when Combeferre had been used to absolute authority. It had also taken a certain amount of time for his new colleagues to trust him and his instincts. At Les Amis, Combeferre had been the unquestioned Guide. Now he found himself having to justify every word, every suggestion, as well as having to calmly accept when people didn’t follow his advice. He watched a lot of good people make bad choices before they realised Combeferre was a sensible voice to listen to. 

He enjoyed working with Eponine; together they were a formidable team that quickly built a good reputation. It also helped to have someone who understood what he was going through as they both strived to work as hard as they could whilst waiting for news. The peacekeepers that had gone in were sympathetic to the revolutionary cause and much of the news that filtered through related to the refugee camps and the need for food and medical aid.

Courfeyrac took over the maintenance of the house at Couvin. There was still some hope that Enjolras and Grantaire might turn up one day just like Joly and Bossuet. Combeferre returned every other weekend and usually the others came as well. Stories were swapped and glasses were raised in the hope that the next time they met they would all be reunited once more.

After four months, the Belgian army had crossed into France with the intention of arming and mobilising the more rural and disorganised factions of the LEF, to give them a better chance against the remnants of the IG empire. It was clear that the political mood hoped to rehabilitate France back into Europe and that there was more chance of that through the LEF than through the old order.

Combeferre hoped that once Belgium had nailed her colours to the mast, other countries in the former European Union might follow suit. Then Paris might open her heart once more and pour out her secrets.

+

Six months passed and still no word. There would be a few weeks of quiet before fresh reports of new battles and explosions and fighting in the streets as the wave of violence spread south. Red flags were raised above every town that declared itself free. Portugal and Spain had also sent in armies to try to bring the revolution to a peaceful conclusion, sweeping up from the South and West.

It was a Saturday in autumn. Combeferre had arrived in Couvin late the night before, spending another weekend with Courfeyrac while Feuilly was due to join them later that day. It was grey outside with the promise of rain and Courfeyrac was restless, unable to sleep any more. He smiled fondly at the man in bed beside him, resisting the temptation to run his fingers down Combeferre’s cheek. The man slept so rarely these days and even though their time together was precious, Courfeyrac wouldn’t wake him for the world.

He slipped from the bed, creeping down the stairs to make some coffee, grabbing the post as he headed for the kitchen. It seemed to be the usual pile of letters and bills and he chucked the small pile onto the table before setting the kettle to boil. Upstairs the floorboards creaked, indicating that Combeferre had returned to the land of the living.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac held out a mug as Combeferre wandered into view. It was accepted gratefully as the man slumped into a vacant chair. Courfeyrac smiled, turning back to make a start on breakfast. He was startled by a sudden explosive oath from behind him.

Combeferre was staring in shock at something in his hands. He looked up at Courfeyrac with wide eyes, the rest of the post pile abandoned on the table.

“Did you see this?” he held out whatever it was for Courfeyrac’s inspection. As Courfeyrac drew closer he saw it was a postcard, the sort that might have been sold in one of the tourist shops in Paris, with a photograph on the front of the Eiffel Tower. He stared at it for a moment, breath catching in his chest before he turned it over to read the back.

Of course it was Enjolras’s writing; he would recognise that neat print anywhere. The card was dated a week ago and contained only four words in English.

_wish you were hERe ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading this. I had no idea when I wrote that first chapter (which was supposed to be a oneshot) that I would actually get all of this out of my head. I really enjoyed exploring my darker side.
> 
> thanks for all your wonderful comments! And to Sarah for being my beta and dragging me to the finish line.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow - so, thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to keep going with this. 
> 
> If you like, I can be found on tumblr at lynchy8. There's also lynchy8-fic which is my fic-specific blog where I'm probably going to be posting meta and stuff for this fic (and others).
> 
> Anyway, cheers for all your support!


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